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UNDINE. 


PICCIOLA, 

BY 

J.  X.  B.  SAINTINE. 

UNDINE, 

AND 

The  Two  Captains, 

BY 

Friedrich,  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouquet 

Paul  and  Viife  >iia, 

BY 

Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierre. 


New  York: 

WM.  L.  ALLISON,  Publisher, 
No.  93  Chambers  St. 

1886. 


^22  36  g F d Garland 


TO  MADAME  YIRGINE  ANCELOT. 


I have  just  been  reading  my  work  again,  and  I tremble  in  offering 
it  to  you.  Yet,  who  could  better  appreciate  it  than  yourself?  You 
do  not  care  for  romances  nor  long  dramas,  and  this  is  neither  a drama 
nor  a romance. 

The  story,  madam,  which  I am  going  to  tell  you  is  simple,  so  sim- 
ple that  perhaps  no  author  ever  before  attempted  a subject  more  au- 
daciously narrowed  in  its  scope.  My  heroine  is  such  a very  little 
thing  ! Not  that  I would  wish,  in  foreseeing  a failure,  to  cast  the 
fault  upon  her  ; God  forbid  ! The  drift  of  this  work  is  but  little 
apparent,  but  the  thought  of  it  is  not  devoid  of  grandeur  ; its  aim  is 
high.  If  I fail  to  attain  it,  it  will  be  because  my  strength  has  failed. 
Nevertheless,  I attach  some  value  to  its  success  ; it  has  been  for  me 
a depository  of  profound  convictions  ; treasures  of  hope  and  of 
consolation  ; and  from  a sentiment  of  kindness  rather  than  of  vanity 
I would  believe  that  though  a crowd  of  vulgar  readers  mav  pass  it  by 
with  disdain,  for  some  others  it  will  not  be  without  charm  or  even 
without  usefulness. 


Has  the  truth  of  the  incidents  related  any  value  for  you ? I hereby 
certify  to  their  truthfulness,  and  trust  you  will  find  therein  some 
compensation  for  other  deficiencies  which  you  will  doubtless  discover. 

You  remember  that  good  and  gracious  woman,  dead  scarcely  a 
year,  the  Countess  de  Charney,  whose  look,  though  clouded  by  sor- 
row  struck  you  as  bearing  a double  and  startled  expression  f 

1 hat  look  so  candid,  so  sweet,  which  seemed  to  caress  you  with 
a glance,  which  warmed  your  heart  in  resting  upon  you,  and  to 
Z-\\Gh’  l.Vfpite  °f  y°ur8elf,  you  promptly  turned  again  to  seek  it 
,w,th  avidity  ; that  look,  at  first  timid  as  that  of  a young  girl  you 
ha  ve  afterward  seen  shining,  animated,  emitting  flames,  and  suddenly 
betlaying  sentiments  of  strength,  of  energy,  and  devotion  ; ah  ! it 
revealed  all  the  woman  ! That  woman,  an  incredible  medley  of  gen- 
tleness and  audacity,  of  weakness  of  judgment  and  resolution  of 
soul,  was  a terrible  lioness,  yet  a child  appeased  by  a word  ; a timid 
dove,  capable  of  bearing  a thunderbolt  without  trembling  if  it  was  a 
ques  ion  of  her  affections  : a mother’s  affections,  be  it  understood  f 
buch  I knew  her,  such  others  knew  her  long  before  : when  her 
dew*ldl!eS8  ^as  excited>  first  as  a daughter,  then  as  a wife 

With  happiness  I hasten  to  sketch  here  before  you  some  traits  of 
that  gentle  and  brave  creature  ; I shall  seldom  have  occasion  to  speak 
of  her  again,  for  she  is  not  the  principal  heroine  of  this  story. 

In  the  only  visit  which  you  paid  her  at  Belleville,  where  she  had 
settled  for  life,  for  the  tomb  of  her  husband  is  there  (hers  also  now) 
many  things  struck  you  by  their  strangeness. 
r irst,  the  presence  of  an  old  servant  sitting  near  her  at  table ; 


94038 1 


4 


PICCIOLA. 


greater  still  was  your  surprise  in  hearing  this  man  of  brusque  and 
vulgar  manners  addressing  familiarly  the  daughter  of  the  countess, 
and  the  elegant  and  well-dressed  young  girl,  beautiful  as  her  mother 
had  been,  replying  to  the  old  man  with  deference  and  respect,  and 
addressing  him  as  godfather  ; in  fact  she  was  his  godchild. 

Then,  do  you  remember  a colorless,  faded  flower  inclosed  in  a val- 
uable locket  suspended  over  the  mirror,  and  when  you  questioned 
her  about  this  relic,  the  painful  expression  which  passed  over  the 
poor  widow’s  face?  I believe  she  even  left  your  question  unan- 
swered ; that  would  have  taken  time,  and  besides  she  could  hardly 
tell  its  story  to  a stranger. 

That  answer  I am  now  going  to  give  you. 

Honored  more  than  once  by  the  confidence  of  the  countess,  and 
sitting  in  front  of  that  locket,  between  her  and  her  old  servant,  I 
have  heard  stories  from  one  and  the  other  which  have  moved  me 
deeply.  For  a long  period  I had  in  my  charge  the  count’s  manu- 
scripts, his  correspondence,  and  the  double  journal  of  his  life,  on 
canvas  and  on  paper  ; nor  have  vindicatory  proofs  and  historical  doc- 
uments been  wanting. 

These  narratives  I have  religiously  retained  in  my  memory  ; these 
manuscripts  I have  carefully  examined  ; from  this  correspondence  I 
have  extracted  precious  fragments  ; from  this  journal  I have  drawn 
my  inspirations  ; and  if  I succeed  in  conveying  to  you  the  sentiment 
with  which  I was  myself  impressed  in  presence  of  all  these  souvenirs 
of  the  captive,  I shall  have  wrongly  trembled  for  the  fate  of  this 
book. 

Yet  another  wTord  : I have,  perhaps,  needlessly  reserved  to  my  hero 
the  title  of  Count , at  a time  when  noble  denominations  had  ceased  to 
be  in  fashion.  I have  done  so  because  I have  alwrays  heard  him 
spoken  of,  whether  in  French  or  Italian,  in  this  way.  In  my 
memory  his  name  and  title  are  indissolubly  connected  ; both  title 
and  name  I have  used  indiscriminately. 

Thus  warned,  madam,  you  must  expect  from  me  neither  events  of 
high  importance  nor  an  attractive  story  of  amorous  adventure.  I 
have  spoken  of  usefulness,  and  to  whom  could  a story  of  love  be 
useful  ? In  that  sweet  sentiment,  practice  above  all  things  is  worth 
more  than  theory,  and  in  pursuit  of  it  every  one  joyfully  prefers  his 
own  experience,  caring  little  to  find  it  ready-made  in  books.  Old 
men,  become  moralists  as  an  act  of  contrition,  will  exclaim,  “Oh, 
foolish  youth,  avoid  this  rock  on  which  we  were  once  dashed  !” 
The  young  reply,  ‘ ‘ This  sea  which  you  have  braved,  we  in  our  turn 
will  brave,  and  we  claim  our  right  to  be  dashed  on  this  same  rock 
also  !’’ 

There  is,  however,  some  love  in  the  story  I am  about  to  relate  to 
you,  madam,  but  it  is  above  all  the  love  of  a man  for  . . . shall  I 
tell  you  ? No,  read  and  you  will  learn. 


X.  Boniface-Saintine. 


PICOIOLA 


CHAPTER  I. 

Charles  Veramont,  Count  de  Charney,  whose  name  is  not 
wholly  effaced  from  the  annals  of  modern  science,  and  may  be  found 
inscribed  in  the  mysterious  archives  of  the  police  under  Napoleon, 
was  endowed  by  nature  with  an  uncommon  capacity  for  study.  Un- 
luckily, however,  his  intelligence  of  mind,  schooled  by  the  forms  of 
a college  education,  had  taken  a disputatious  turn.  He  was  an  able 
logician  rather  than  a sound  reasouer  ; and  there  was  in  Charney  the 
composition  of  a learned  man,  but  not  of  a philosopher. 

At  twenty-five  the  count  was  master  of  seven  languages  ! but  in- 
stead of  following  the  example  of  certain  learned  Polyglots,  who 
seemed  to  acquire  foreign  idioms  for  the  express  purpose  of  exposing 
their  incapacity  to  the  contempt  of  foreigners,  as  well  as  of  their  own 
countrymen,  through  a confusion  of  tongues  as  well  as  intellect,  Char- 
ney regarded  his  acquirements  as  a linguist  only  as  a stepping-stone 
to  others  of  higher  value.  Commanding  the  services  of  so  many 
menials  of  the  intellect,  he  assigned  to  each  his  business,  his  duty, 
his  field  to  cultivate.  The  Germans  served  him  for  metaphysics  ; 
the  English  and  Italians  for  politics  and  jurisprudence  ; all  for  history  ; 
to  the  remotest  sources  of  which  he  travelled  in  company  with  the 
Romans,  Greeks,  and  Hebrews. 

In  devoting  himself  to  these  serious  studies,  the  count  did  not  neglect 
the  accessory  sciences.  Till  at  length,  alarmed  by  the  extent  of  the 
vast  horizon,  which  seemed  to  expand  as  he  advanced  ; finding  him- 
self stumble  at  every  step,  in  the  labyrinth  in  which  he  was  bewil- 
dered—weary  of  the  pursuit  of  Truth  (the  unknown  goddess),  he 
began  to  contemplate  history  as  the  lie  of  ages,  and  attempted  to  re- 
construct the  edifice  on  a surer  foundation.  He  composed  a new  his- 
torical romance,  which  the  learned  derided  from  envy,  and  society 
from  ignorance. 

Political  and  legislative  science  furnished  him  with  more  positive 
groundwork  ; but  these,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  were 
crying  aloud  for  reform  ; and  when  he  tried  to  specify  a few  of  the 
more  flagrant  abuses,  they  proved  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  social  sys- 


6 


PICCIOLA. 


tem — so  many  destinies  were  based  on  a fallacious  principle— that  he 
was  actually  discouraged.  Charney  had  not  the  strength  of  mind  or 
insensibility  of  heart  indispensable  to  overthrow,  in  other  nations,  all 
that  even  the  tornado  of  the  Revolution  had  left  standing  in  his  own. 

He  recollected,  too,  that  hosts  of  estimable  men,  as  learned  and 
perhaps  as  well-intentioned  as  himself,  professed  theories  in  total 
opposition  to  his  own.  If  he  were  to  set  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe  on  fire  for  the  mere  satisfaction  of  a chimera  ? This  considera- 
tion, more  startling  than  even  his  historical  doubts,  reduced  him  to 
the  most  painful  perplexity. 

Metaphysics  afforded  him  a last  resource.  In  the  ideal  world  an 
overthrow  is  less  alarming,  since  ideas  may  clash  without  danger  in 
infinite  space.  In  waging  such  a war,  he  no  longer  risked  the  safety 
of  others  ; he  endangered  only  his  own  peace  of  mind. 

The  farther  he  advanced  into  the  mysteries  of  metaphysical 
science,  analyzing,  arguing,  disputing,  the  more  deeply  he  became 
enveloped  in  darkness  and  mystery.  Truth,  ever  flying  from  his 
grasp,  vanishing  under  his  gaze,  seemed  to  deride  him  like  the 
mockery  of  a will-o’-the-wisp  shining  to  delude  the  unwary.  When 
he  paused  to  admire  its  luminous  brilliancy,  all  suddenly  grew  dark 
— the  meteor  having  disappeared  to  shine  again  on  some  remote  and  un- 
expected point  ; and  when,  persevering  and  tenacious,  Charney  armed 
himself  with  patience,  followed  with  steady  steps,  and  attained  the 
sanctuary,  the  fugitive  was  gone  again  ! This  time  he  had  over- 
stepped the  mark  ! When  he  fancied  the  meteor  was  in  his  hand — 
grasped  firmly  in  his  hand — it  had  already  slipped  through  his  fin- 
gers, multiplying  itself  into  a thousand  brilliant  and  delusive  particles. 
Twenty  rival  truths  perplexed  the  horizon  of  his  mind,  like  so  many 
false  beacons  beguiling  him  to  shipwreck.  After  vacillating  between 
Bossuet  and  Spinoza,  deism  and  atheism — bewildered  among  spirit- 
ualists, materialists,  idealists,  ontologists,  and  eclectics — he  took  ref- 
uge in  universal  scepticism,  comforting  his  uneasy  ignorance  by  bold 
and  universal  negation. 

Having  set  aside  the  doctrine  of  innate  ideas,  and  the  revelation  of 
theologians  as  well  as  the  opinions  of  Leibnitz,  Locke,  and  Kant, 
the  Count  de  Charney  now  resigned  himself  to  the  grossest  pan- 
theism, unscrupulously  denying  the  existence  of  one  high  and  su- 
preme God.  The  contradiction  existing  between  ideas  and  things, 
the  irregularities  of  the  created  world,  the  unequal  distribution  of 
strength  and  endowment  among  mankind,  inspired  his  overtasked 
brain  with  the  conclusion  that  the  world  is  a conglomeration  of  in- 
sensate matter,  and  Chance  the  lord  of  all. 

Chance,  therefore,  became  his  God  here,  and  nothingness  his  hope 
hereafter  ! He  adopted  his  new  creed  with  avidity — almost  with 
triumph — as  if  the  audacious  invention  had  been  his  own.  It  was  a 
relief  to  get  rid  of  the  doubts  which  tormented  him,  by  a sweeping 
clause  of  incredulity  ; and  from  that  moment  Charney,  bidding  adieu 


PICCIOLA.  7 

to  science,  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
world. 

The  death  of  a relation  placed  him  in  possession  of  a considerable 
fortune.  France,  reorganized  by  the  Consulate,  was  resuming  its 
former  habits  of  luxury  and  splendor.  The  clarion  of  victory  was 
audible  from  every  quarter,  and  all  was  joy  and  festivity  in  the 
capital.  The  Count  de  Charney  figured  brilliantly  in  the  world  of 
magnificence,  elegance,  taste,  and  enlightenment.  Having  at- 
tracted around  him  the  gay,  the  graceful,  and  the  witty,  he  unclosed 
the  gates  of  his  splendid  mansion  to  the  glittering  divinities  of  the 
day — to  fashion,  bon  ton,  and  distinction  of  every  kind.  Lost  in 
the  giddy  crowd,  he  took  part  in  all  its  enjoyments  and  dissipations, 
amazed  that  amid  such  a vortex  of  pleasures  he  should  still  remain  a 
stranger  to  happiness. 

Music,  dress,  the  perfumed  atmosphere  surrounding  the  fair  and 
fashionable  were  the  chief  objects  of  his  interest.  Vainly  had  he 
attempted  to  devote  himself  to  the  society  of  men  renowned  for  wit 
and  understanding.  The  ignorance  of  the  learned,  the  errors  of  the 
wise,  excited  only  his  compassion  or  contempt. 

Such  is  the  misfortune  of  proficiency  ! No  one  reaches  the  artifi- 
cial standard  we  have  created.  Even  those  who  are  as  learned  as 
ourselves  are  learned  after  some  other  fashion  ; and  from  our  lofty 
eminence  we  look  down  upon  mankind  as  upon  a crowd  of  dwarfs 
and  pigmies  ! In  the  hierarchy  of  intellect,  as  in  that  of  power, 
elevation  is  isolated — to  be  alone  is  the  destiny  of  the  great  ! 

Vainly  did  the  Count  de  Charney  devote  himself  to  sensual  pleas- 
ures. In  the  infancy  of  a social  system  so  long  estranged  from  the 
joys  of  life,  and  still  defiled  by  the  blood-stained  orgies  of  the  Revo- 
lution, attired  in  rags  and  tatters  of  Roman  virtue,  yet  emulating  the 
licentious  excesses  of  the  regency,  he  signalized  himself  by  his  prod- 
igality and  dissipation.  Labor  lost  ! — horses,  equipages,  a splendid 
table,  balls,  concerts,  and  hunting  parties  failed  to  secure  pleasure 
as  his  guest.  He  had  friends  to  flatter  him,  mistresses  to  amuse  his 
leisure  ; yet,  though  all  these  were  purchased  at  the  highest  price, 
the  count  found  himself  as  far  as  ever  from  the  joys  of  love  or 
friendship.  Nothing  availed  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  of  his  heart  or 
force  it  into  a smile  ; Charney  actually  labored  to  be  entrapped  by 
the  baits  of  society  without  achieving  captivation.  The  siren 
Pleasure,  raising  her  fair  form  and  enchanting  voice  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  waters,  fascinated  the  man,  but  the  eye  of  the  philosopher 
could  not  refrain  from  plunging  into  the  glassy  depths  below,  to  be 
disgusted  by  the  scaly  body  and  bifurcal  tail  of  the  ensnaring 
monster  ! 

Truth  and  error  were  equally  against  him.  To  virtue  he  was  a 
stranger,  to  vice  indifferent.  He  had  experienced  the  vanity  of 
knowledge,  but  the  bliss  of  ignorance  was  denied  him.  The  gates 
of  Eden  were  closed  against  his  re-entrance.  Reason  appeared  Mia- 
M.  C.-10 


8 


PICCIOLA. 


cious,  joy  apocryphal.  The  noise  of  entertainments  wearied  him  ; 
the  silence  of  home  was  still  more  tedious.  In  company  he  became 
a burden  to  others  ; in  retirement,  to  himself.  A profound  sadness 
took  possession  of  his  soul  ! 

In  spite  of  all  Charney ’s  efforts,  the  demon  of  philosophical  analy- 
sis, far  from  being  exorcised,  served  to  tarnish,  undermine,  contract, 
and  extinguish  the  brilliancy  of  every  mode  of  life  he  selected.  The 
praise  of  his  friends,  the  endearments  of  his  loves  seemed  nothing 
more  than  the  current  coin  given  in  exchange  for  a certain  portion  of 
his  property,  the  paltry  evidence  of  a necessity  for  living  at  his  ex- 
pense. 

Decomposing  every  passion  and  sentiment,  and  reducing  all  things 
to  their  primitive  elements,  he  at  length  contracted  a morbid  state  of 
mind,  amounting  almost  to  aberration  of  intellect.  He  fancied  that 
in  the  finest  tissue  composing  his  garments  he  could  detect  the  ex- 
halations of  the  animal  of  whose  fleece  it  was  enwoven — on  the  silk 
of  his  gorgeous  hangings,  the  crawling  worm  which  furnishes  them. 
His  furniture,  carpets,  gewgaws,  trinkets  of  coral  or  mother-of-pearl, 
all  were  stigmatized  in  his  e}^es  as  the  spoil  of  the  dead,  shaped  by 
the  labors  of  some  squalid  artisan.  The  spirit  of  inquiry  had  de- 
stroyed every  illusion.  The  imagination  of  the  sceptic  was  para- 
lyzed ! 

To  such  a heart  as  that  of  Charney,  however,  emotion  was  indis- 
pensable. The  love  which  found  no  single  object  on  which  to  con- 
centrate its  vigor  expanded  into  tenderness  for  all  mankind  ; and  he 
became  a philanthropist ! 

With  the  view  of  serving  the  cause  of  his  fellow-creatures,  he  de- 
voted himself  to  politics,  no  longer  speculative  but  active  ; initiated 
himself  into  secret  societies,  and  grew  a fanatic  for  freedom,  the  only 
superstition  remaining  for  those  who  have  renounced  the  higher  as- 
pirations of  human  nature.  He  enrolled  himself  in  a plot ! — a con- 
spiracy against  nothing  less  than  the  sovereignty  of  the  victorious 
Napoleon. 

In  this  attempt  Charney  fancied  himself  actuated  by  patriotism, 
by  philanthropy,  by  love  of  his  countrymen  ! — more  likely  by  ani- 
mosity against  the  one  great  man  of  whose  power  and  glory  he  was 
envious  ! An  aristocrat  at  heart,  he  fancied  himself  a leveller.  The 
proud  noble,  who  had  been  robbed  of  the  title  of  count,  bequeathed 
him  by  his  ancestors,  did  not  choose  that  his  inferior  in  birth  should 
assume  the  title  of  emperor  which  he  had  conquered  at  the  point  of 
his  sword. 

It  matters  little  in  what  plot  he  embarked  his  destinies  ; at  that 
epoch  there  was  no  lack  of  conspiracies  ! It  was  one  of  the  many 
hatched  between  1803  and  1804  and  not  suffered  to  come  to  light : 
the  police — that  second  providence  which  presides  over  the  safety  of 
empires — was  beforehand  with  it ! Government  decided  that  the 
less  noise  made  on  the  occasion  the  better  ; they  would  not  even  spare 


PICCIOLA. 


9 


it  so  much  as  a discharge  of  muskets  on  the  Plaine  de  Grenelle,  the 
scene  of  military  execution  ; but  the  heads  of  the  conspiracy  were 
privately  arrested,  condemned,  almost  without  trial,  and  conveyed 
away  to  solitary  confinement  in  various  state  prisons,  citadels,  or 
fortresses  of  the  ninety-six  departments  of  consular  France. 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  traversing  the  Alps  on  my  way  to  Italy -an  humble  tourist, 
with  my  staff  in  my  hand,  and  my  wallet  on  my  shoulder — I remem 
ber  pausing  to  contemplate,  near  the  pass  of  Rodoretto,  a torrent 
swollen  by  the  melting  of  the  glaciers.  The  tumultuoussounds  pro- 
duced by  its  course,  the  foaming  cascades  into  which  it  burst,  the 
varying  colors  and  hues  created  by  the  movement  of  its  waters— yel- 
low, white,  green,  black,  according  to  its  channel  through  marl,  slate, 
chalk,  or  peat  earth — the  vast  blocks  of  marble  or  granite  it  had 
detached  without  being  able  to  remove,  around  which  a thousand 
ever-changing  cataracts  added  roar  to  roar,  cascade  to  cascade  ; the 
trunks  of  trees  it  had  uprooted,  of  which  the  still  foliaged  branches 
emerging  from  the  water  were  agitated  by  the  winds,  while  the  roots 
were  buffeted  by  the  waves  ; fragments  of  the  very  banks,  clothed 
with  verdure  and  driven  like  floating  islands  against  the  trees,  as  the 
trees  were  driven  in  their  turn  against  the  blocks  of  granite — all 
this,  these  murmurs,  clashings,  and  roarings,  confined  between 
narrow  and  precipitous  banks,  impressed  me  with  wonder  and  ad- 
miration. And  this  torrent  was  the  Clusone  ! 

Skirting  its  shores,  I pursued  the  course  of  the  stream  into  one  of 
the  four  valleys  retaining  the  name  of  “ Protestant,”  in  memory  of 
the  Yaudois  who  formerly  took  refuge  in  their  solitudes.  There  my 
torrent  lost  its  wild  irregularity,  and  its  hundred  roaring  voices  were 
presently  subdued.  Its  shattered  trees  and  islands  had  been  deposited 
on  some  adjacent  level,  its  colors  had  resolved  themselves  into  one, 
and  the  material  of  its  bed  no  longer  distinguishable  on  the  tranquil 
surface.  Still  strong  and  copious,  it  now  flowed  with  decency,  pro- 
priety, almost  with  coquetry  ; affecting  the  airs  of  a modest  rivulet 
as  it  bathed  the  rugged  walls  of  Fenestrel'a. 

It  was  then  I visited  Fenestrella,  a large  town  celebrated  for  pep- 
permint water,  and  the  fortresses  which  crown  the  two  mountains 
between  which  it  is  situated,  communicating  with  each  other  by 
covered  ways,  but  partly  dismantled  during  the  wars  of  the  Republic. 
One  of  the  forts,  however,  was  repaired  and  refortified  when  Pied- 
mont became  incorporated  into  France. 

In  this  fortress  of  Fenestrella  was  Charles  Yeramont,  Count  de 
Charney,  incarcerated,  on  an  accusation  of  having  attempted  to  sub- 


10 


PICCIOLA. 


vert  the  laws  of  government  and  introduce  anarchy  and  confusion 
into  the  country. 

Estranged,  by  rigid  imprisonment,  alike  from  men  of  science  and 
men  of  pleasure,  and  regretting  neither  ; renouncing  without  much 
effort  his  wild  projects  of  political  regeneration  ; bidding  a forced 
farewell  to  his  fortune,  by  the  pomps  of  which  he  had  been  undazzled 
— to  his  friends  who  were  grown  tiresome,  and  his  mistresses  who 
were  grown  faithless  ; having  for  his  abode,  instead  of  a princely 
mansion,  a bare  and  gloomy  chamber — the  jailer  of  Charney  was 
now  his  sole  attendant,  and  his  embittered  spirit  his  only  companion. 

But  what  signified  the  gloom  and  nakedness  of  his  apartment  ? 
The  necessaries  of  life  were  there,  and  he  had  long  been  disgusted 
with  its  superfluities.  Even  his  jailer  gave  him  no  offence.  It  was 
only  his  own  thoughts  that  troubled  him. 

Yet  what  other  diversion  remained  for  his  solitude  but  self-con- 
ference?  Alas,  none!  Nothing  around  him  or  before  him  but 
weariness  and  vexation  of  spirit  ! All  correspondence  was  inter- 
dicted. He  was  allowed  no  books,  nor  pens  nor  paper  ; for  such  was 
the  established  discipline  at  Fenestrella.  A year  befoie,  when  the 
count  was  intent  only  on  emancipating  himself  from  the  perplexities 
of  learning,  this  loss  might  have  seemed  a gain.  But  now  a book 
would  have  afforded  a friend  to  consult  or  an  adversary  to  be  con- 
futed ! Deprived  of  everything,  sequestered  from  the  world,  Char- 
ne}r  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to  become  reconciled  to  himself  and 
live  in  peace  with  that  natural  enemy,  his  soul.  For  the  cruelty  with 
which  that  unsilenceable  monitor  continued  to  set  before  him  the  des- 
perateness of  his  condition  rendered  conciliation  necessary.  His 
case  was  indeed  a hard  one  ! A man  to  whom  nature  had  been  so 
prodigal,  whose  cradle  society  had  surrounded  with  honors  and  priv- 
ileges— he  to  be  reduced  to  such  abject  insignificance  ! — he  to  have 
need  of  pity  and  protection,  who  had  faith  neither  in  the  existence 
of  a God  nor  the  mercy  of  his  fellow-creatures  ! 

Vainly  did  he  strive  to  throw  off  this  frightful  consciousness,  when 
in  the  solitude  of  his  reveries  it  alternately  chilled  and  scorched  his 
shrinking  bosom  ; and  once  more  the  unhappy  Charney  began  to 
cling  for  support  to  the  visible  and  material  world — now,  alas  ! how 
circumscribed  around  him.  The  room  assigned  to  his  use  was  at  the 
rear  of  the  citadel,  in  a small  building  raised  upon  the  ruins  of  a vast 
and  strong  foundation,  serving  formerty  for  defence,  but  rendered 
useless  by  a new  system  of  fortification. 

Four  walls,  newly  whitewashed,  so  that  he  was  denied  even  the 
amusement  of  perusing  the  lucubrations  of  former  prisoners,  his 
predecessors  ; a table,  serving  for  his  meals  ; a chair,  whose  insu- 
lated unity  reminded  him  that  no  human  being  would  ever  sit  beside 
him  there  in  friendly  converse  ; a trunk  for  his  clothes  and  linen  ; a 
little  sideboard  of  painted  deal,  half  worm-eaten,  offered  a singular 
contrast  to  the  rich  mahogany  dressing-case,  inlaid  with  silver. 


PICCIOLA. 


11 


standing  there  as  the  sole  representative  of  his  former  splendors  ; a 
clean  but  narrow  bed,  and  window-curtains  of  blue  cloth  (a  mere 
mockery,  for,  thanks  to  the  closeness  of  his  prison-bars  and  the  op- 
posite wall  rising  at  ten  feet  distance,  there  was  little  to  fear  from 
prying  eyes  or  the  importunate  radiance  of  the  sun) — such  was  the 
complement  of  furniture  allotted  to  the  Count  de  Charney. 

Over  his  chamber  was  another,  wholly  unoccupied  ; he  had  not  a 
single  companion  in  that  detached  portion  of  the  fortress. 

The  remainder  of  his  world  consisted  in  a short,  massive,  winding 
stone  staircase,  descending  into  a small  paved  court,  sunk  into  what 
had  been  a moat,  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  citadel,  in  which  narrow 
space  he  was  permitted  to  enjoy  air  and  exercise  during  two  hours  of 
the  day.  Such  was  the  ukase  of  the  commandant  of  Fenestrella. 

From  this  confined  spot,  however,  the  prisoner  was  able  to  extend 
his  glance  toward  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  and  command  a 
view  of  the  vapors  rising  from  the  plain  ; for  the  walls  of  the  ram- 
parts, lowering  suddenly  at  the  extremity  of  the  glacis,  admitted  a 
limited  proportion  of  air  and  sunshine  into  the  court.  But  once  shut 
up  again  in  his  room,  his  view  was  bounded  by  an  horizon  of  solid 
masonry  and  a surmise  of  the  majestic  and  picturesque  aspect  of 
nature  it  served  to  conceal.  Charney  was  well  aware  that  to  the 
right  rose  the  fertile  hills  of  Saluces  ; that  to  his  left  were  developed 
the  last  undulations  of  the  valley  of  Aorta  and  the  banks  of  the 
Chiara  ; that  before  him  lay  the  noble  plains  of  Turin  ; and  behind, 
the  mighty  chain  of  the  Alps,  with  its  adornment  of  rocks,  forests, 
and  chasms,  from  Mount  Genevra  to  Mount  Cenis.  But,  in  spite  of 
this  charming  vicinage,  all  he  was  permitted  to  behold  was  the  misty 
sky  suspended  over  his  head  by  a framework  of  rude  masonry,  the 
pavement  of  the  little  court,  and  the  bars  of  his  prison,  through 
which  he  might  admire  the  opposite  wall,  adorned  with  a single  small 
square  window,  at  which  he  had  once  or  twice  caught  glimpses  of  a 
doleful  human  countenance. 

What  a world  from  which  to  extract  delight  and  entertainment  ! 
The  unhappy  count  wore  out  his  patience  in  the  attempt ! At  first 
he  amused  himself  with  scribbling  with  a morsel  of  charcoal  on  the 
walls  of  his  prison  the  dates  of  every  happy  event  of  his  childhood  ; 
but  from  this  dispiriting  task  he  desisted,  more  discouraged  than 
ever.  The  demon  of  scepticism  next  inspired  him  with  evil  counsel ; 
and,  having  framed  into  fearful  sentences  the  axioms  of  his  withering 
creed,  he  inscribed  them  also  on  his  wall,  between  recollections  con- 
secrated to  hi3  sister  and  his  mother  ! 

Still  unconsoled,  Charney  at  length  made  up  his  mind  to  fling 
aside  his  heart-eating  cares,  and  adopt,  by  anticipation,  all  the  puer- 
ilities and  brutalization  which  result  from  the  prolongation  of  solitary 
confinement.  The  philosopher  attempted  to  find  amusement  in  un- 
ravelling silk  or  linen  ; in  making  flageolets  of  straw,  and  building 
ships  of  walnut-shells.  The  man  of  genius  constructed  whistles, 


12 


PICCIOLA. 


boxes,  and  baskets,  of  kernels  ; chains  and  musical  instruments  with 
the  springs  of  his  braces  ; nay,  for  a time  he  took  delight  in  these 
absurdities  ; then,  with  a sudden  movement  of  disgust,  trampled 
them,  one  by  one,  under  his  feet ! 

To  vary  his  employment,  Charney  began  to  carve  a thousand  fan- 
ciful designs  upon  his  wooden  table  ! No  school-boy  ever  mutilated 
his  desk  by  such  attempts  at  arabesque,  both  in  relief  and  intaglio, 
as  tasked  his  patience  and  address.  The  celebrated  portal  of  the 
church  of  Candebee  and  the  pulpit  and  palm-trees  of  St.  Gudule  at 
Brussels  are  not  adorned  with  a greater  variety  of  figures.  There 
were  houses  upon  houses,  fishes  upon  trees,  men  taller  than  steeples, 
boats  upon  roofs,  carriages  upon  water,  dwarf  pyramids,  ai^d  flies  of 
gigantic  stature — horizontal,  vertical,  oblique,  topsy-turvy,  upside 
down,  pell-mell,  a chaos  of  hieroglyphics,  in  which  he  tried  to  dis- 
cover a sense  symbolical,  an  accidental  intention,  an  occult  design  ; 
for  it  was  no  great  effort  on  the  part  of  one  who  had  so  much  faith 
in  the  power  of  chance  to  expect  the  development  of  an  epic  poem 
in  the  sculptures  on  his  table  or  a design  of  Raphael  in  the  veins  of 
his  boxwood  snuff-box. 

It  was  the  delight  of  his  ingenuity  to  multiply  difficulties  for  con 
quest,  problems  for  solution,  enigmas  for  divination  ; but  even  in 
the  midst  of  these  recreations,  ennui,  the  formidable  enemy,  again 
surprised  the  captive. 

The  man  whose  face  he  had  noticed  at  the  grated  window  might 
have  afforded  him  food  for  conjecture,  had  he  not  seemed  to  avoid 
the  observation  of  the  count  by  retiring  the  moment  Charney  made 
his  appearance  ; in  consequence  of  which  he  conceived  an  abhorrence 
of  the  recluse.  Such  was  his  opinion  of  the  human  species  that  the 
stranger’s  desire  of  concealment  convinced  him  he  was  a spy  em- 
ployed to  watch  the  movements  of  the  prisoners  ; or,  perhaps,  some 
former  enemy  exulting  over  his  humiliation. 

On  interrogating  the  jailer,  however,  this  last  supposition  was  set 
at  rest. 

“ ’Tis  an  Italian,”  said  Ludovico,  the  turnkey.  “ A good  soul, 
and,  what  is  more,  a good  Christian  ; for  I often  find  him  at  his  de- 
votions.” 

Charney  shrugged  his  shoulders  : “ And  what  may  be  the  cause, 
pray,  of  his  retention  ?”  said  he. 

“ He  attempted  to  assassinate  the  emperor.” 

“ Is  he,  then,  a patriot?” 

“ A patriot  ! Rubbish  ! Not  he.  But  the  poor  soul  had  once  a 
son  and  daughter  ; and  now  he  has  only  a daughter.  The  son  was 
killed  in  Germany  . A cannon-ball  broke  a tooth  for  him.  Povero 
figliuolo!” 

‘ ‘ It  was  a paroxysm  of  selfishness,  then,  which  moved  this  old 
man  to  become  an  assassin  ?” 

“You  have  never  been  a father,  Signor  Conte!”  replied  the  jailer 


PICCIOLA. 


13 


“ Cristo  Santo ! if  my  Antonio,  who  is  still  a babe,  were  to  eat  his 
first  mouthful  for  the  good  of  this  empire  of  the  French  (which  is  a 
bantling  of  his  own  age,  or  thereabout),  I’d  soon — but  basta!  I’ve 
no  mind  to  take  up  my  lodgings  at  Fenestrella,  except  as  it  may  be 
with  my  keys  at  my  girdle  or  under  my  pillow.” 

“ And  how  does  this  fierce  conspirator  amuse  himself  in  prison  ?” 
persisted  Charney. 

“ Catching  flies  !”  replied  the  jailer,  with  an  ironical  wink. 

Instead  of  detesting  his  brother  in  misfortune,  Charney  now  began 
to  despise  him.  “ A madman,  then  ?”  he  demanded. 

“ Perche  pazzo , Signor  Conte?  Though  you  are  the  last  comer,  you 
excel  him  already  in  the  art  of  hacking  a table  into  devices.  Pazi- 
mza /” 

In  defiance  of  the  sneer  conveyed  in  the  jailer’s  remark,  Charney 
soon  resumed  his  manual  labors  and  the  interpretation  of  his  hiero- 
glyphics ; but,  alas  ! only  to  experience  anew  their  insufliciency  as  a 
kill-time.  His  first  winter  had  expired  in  weariness  and  discontent, 
when,  by  the  mercy  of  heaven,  an  unexpected  object  of  interest  was 
assigned  him. 


CHAPTER  III. 

One  day  Charney  was  breathing  the  fresh  air  in  the  little  court  of 
the  fortress,  at  the  accustomed  hour,  his  head  declining,  his  eyes 
downcast,  his  arms  crossed  behind  him,  pacing  with  slow  and  meas- 
ured steps,  as  if  his  deliberation  tended  to  enlarge  the  precincts  of  his 
dominion. 

Spring  was  breaking.  A milder  air  breathing  around  tantalized 
him  with  a vain  inclination  to  enjoy  the  season  at  liberty,  as  master 
of  his  time  and  territory.  He  was  proceeding  to  number,  one  by 
one,  the  stones  paving  the  courtyard  (doubtless  to  verify  the  accuracy 
of  former  calculations,  for  it  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  they 
had  put  his  arithmetic  to  the  test),  when  he  perceived  a small  mound 
of  earth  rising  between  two  stones  of  the  pavement,  cleft  slightly  at 
its  summit. 

The  count  stopped  short ; his  heart  bear  hurriedly  without  any 
rational  grounds  for  emotion,  except  that  every  trivial  incident  affords 
matter  of  hope  or  fear  to  a captive.  In  the  most  indifferent  objects, 
in  the  most  unimportant  events,  the  prisoner  discerns  traces  of  a mys- 
terious project  for  his  deliverance. 

Who  could  decide  that  this  trifling  irregularity  on  the  surface 
might  not  indicate  important  operations  under  ground  ? Subterra- 
neous issues  might  have  been  secretly  constructed,  and  the  earth  be 
about  to  open  and  afford  him  egress  toward  the  mountains  ! Perhaps 
his  former  friends  and  accomplices  had  been  sapping  and  mining  to 
procure  access  to  his  dungeon  and  restore  him  to  light  and  liberty  ! 


14 


PICCIOLA. 


He  listened  ! He  fancied  he  could  detect  the  low  murmur  of  a sub- 
terraneous sound.  He  raised  his  head,  and  the  loud  and  rapid  clang 
of  the  tocsin  saluted  his  ear.  The  ramparts  were  echoing  with  the 
prolonged  roll  of  drums,  like  the  call  to  arms  in  time  of  war.  He 
started  ; he  passed  his  trembling  hand  over  his  forehead,  on  which  cold 
dews  of  intense  agitation  were  already  rising.  Is  his  liberation  at 
hand  ? Is  France  submitted  to  the  domination  of  a new  ruler  ? 

The  illusion  of  the  captive  vanished  as  it  came.  Reflection  soon 
restored  him  to  reason.  He  no  longer  possesses  accomplices — he 
never  possessed  friends  ! Again  he  lends  a listening  ear,  and  the 
same  noises  recur  ; but  they  mislead  his  mind  no  longer.  The  sup- 
posed tocsin  is  only  the  church-bell  which  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
hear  daily  at  the  same  hour  ; and  the  drums  the  usual  evening  signal 
for  retreat  to  quarters.  With  a bitter  smile  Charney  begins  to  com- 
passionate his  own  folly,  which  could  mistake  the  insignificant  labors 
of  some  insect  or  reptile,  some  wandering  mole  or  field-mouse,  for 
the  result  of  human  fidelity  or  the  subversion  of  a mighty  empire. 

Resolved,  however,  to  bring  the  matter  to  the  test,  Charney, 
bending  over  the  little  hillock,  gently  removed  the  earth  from  its 
summit ; when  he  had  the  mortification  to  perceive  that  the  wild 
though  momentary  emotion  by  which  he  had  been  overcome  was 
not  produced  by  so  much  as  the  labors  of  an  animal  armed  with 
teeth  and  claws,  but  by  the  efforts  of  a feeble  plant  to  pierce  the  soil — a 
pale  and  sickly  scattering  of  vegetation.  Deeply  vexed,  he  was  about 
to  crush  with  his  heel  the  miserable  weed,  when  a refreshing  breeze, 
laden  with  the  sweets  of  some  bower  of  honeysuckles  or  syringas, 
swept  past,  as  if  to  intercede  for  mercy  toward  the  poor  plant,  which 
might  perhaps  hereafter  reward  him  with  its  flowTers  and  fragrance. 

A new  conjecture  conspired  to  suspend  his  act  of  vengeance.  How 
has  this  tender  plant,  so  soft  and  fragile  as  to  be  crushed  with  a 
touch,  contrived  to  pierce  and  cleave  asunder  the  earth,  dried  and 
hardened  into  a mass  by  the  sun,  daily  trodden  down  by  his  own 
footsteps,  and  all  but  cemented  to  the  flags  of  granite  between  which 
it  was  inclosed?  On  stooping  again  to  examine  the  matter  with 
more  attention,  he  observed  at  the  extremity  of  the  plant  a sort  of 
fleshy  valve,  affording  protection  to  its  first  and  tenderest  leaves 
from  the  injurious  contact  of  any  hard  bodies  they  might  have  to 
encounter  in  penetrating  the  earthy  crust  in  search  of  light  and  air. 

“ This  then  is  the  secret  !”  cried  he,  already  interested  in  his  dis- 
covery. “ Nature  has  imparted  strength  to  the  vegetable  germ,  even 
as  the  unfledged  bird  which  is  able  to  break  asunder  with  its  beak  the 
egg-shell  in  which  it  is  imprisoned  ; happier  than  myself — in  pos- 
session of  unalienable  instruments  to  secure  its  liberation!”  And 
after  gazing  another  minute  on  the  inoffensive  plant,  he  lost  all  in- 
clination for  its  destruction. 

On  resuming  his  walk  the  next  day,  with  wide  and  careless  steps, 
Charney  was  on  the  point  of  setting  his  foot  on  it,  from  inadvertence, 


PICCIOLA. 


15 


but  luckily  recoiled  in  time.  Amused  to  find  himself  interested  in 
the  preservation  of  a weed,  he  paused  to  take  note  of  its  progress 
The  plant  was  strangely  grown,  and  the  free  light  of  day  had  already 
effaced  the  pale  and  sickly  complexion  of  the  preceding  day.  Char- 
ney  was  struck  by  the  power  inherent  in  vegetables  to  absorb  rays 
of  light,  and,  fortified  by  the  nourishment,  borrow,  as  it  were,  from 
the  prism,  the  very  colors  predestined  to  distinguish  its  various  parts 
of  organization. 

“ The  leaves,”  thought  he,  “ will  probably  imbibe  a hue  different 
from  that  of  the  stem.  And  the  flowers  ? what  color,  I wonder,  will 
be  the  flowers  ? Nourished  by  the  same  sap  as  the  green  leaves  and 
stem,  how  do  they  manage  to  acquire,  from  the  influence  of  the  sun, 
their  variegations  of  azure,  pink,  or  scarlet  ? For  already  their  hue 
is  appointed.  In  spite  of  the  confusion  and  disorder  of  all  human 
affairs,  matter,  blind  as  it  is,  marches  with  admirable  regularity  : 
still  blindly,  however  ; for  lo,  the  fleshy  lobes  which  served  to  facili- 
tate for  the  plant  its  progress  through  the  soil,  though  now  useless, 
are  feeding  their  superfluous  substance  at  its  expense,  and  weighing 
upon  its  slender  stalk  !” 

But,  even  as  he  spoke,  daylight  became  obscured.  A chilly  spring 
evening,  threatening  a frosty  night,  was  setting  in  ; and  the  two 
lobes,  gradually  rising,  seemed  to  reproach  him  with  his  objections, 
by  the  practical  argument  of  inclosing  the  still  tender  foliage,  which 
they  secured  from  the  attacks  of  insects  or  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  by  the  screen  of  their  protecting  wings. 

The  man  of  science  was  better  able  to  comprehend  this  mute  an- 
swer to  his  cavilling,  because  the  external  surface  of  the  vegetable 
bivalve  had  been  injured  the  preceding  night  by  a snail,  whose  slimy 
trace  was  left  upon  the  verdure  of  the  cotyledon. 

This  curious  colloquy  between  action  and  cogitation,  between  the 
plant  and  the  philosopher,  was  not  yet  at  an  end.  Charney  was  too 
fond  of  metaphysical  disquisition  to  allow  himself  to  be  vanquished 
by  a good  argument. 

“ ’Tis  all  very  well !”  cried  he.  “ In  this  instance,  as  in  others,  a 
fortunate  coincidence  of  circumstances  has  favored  the  development 
of  incomplete  creation.  It  was  the  inherent  qualification  of  the  na- 
ture of  the  plant  to  be  born  with  a lever  in  order  to  upraise  the  earth, 
and  a buckler  to  shelter  its  tender  head  ; without  which  it  must  have 
perished  in  the  germ,  like  myriads  of  individuals  of  its  species 
which  proved  incapable  of  accomplishing  their  destinies.  How  can 
one  guess  the  number  of  unsuccessful  efforts  which  nature  may  have 
made  ere  she  perfected  a single  subject  sufficiently  organized  ? A blind 
man  may  sometimes  shoot  home  ; but  how  many  uncounted  arrows 
must  be  lost  before  he  attains  the  mark  ? For  millions  of  forgotten 
centuries,  matter  has  been  triturating  between  negative  and  positive 
attraction.  How  then  can  one  wonder  that  chance  should  sometimes 
produce  coincidence  ? This  fleshy  screen  serves  to  shelter  the  early 


16 


PICCIOLA. 


leaves.  Granted  ! But  will  it  enlarge  its  dimensions  to  contain  the 
rest  as  they  are  put  forth,  and  defend  them  from  cold  and  insects? 
No,  no  ; no  evidence  of  the  calculating  of  a presiding  Providence  ! 
A lucky  chance  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of  the  universe  !” 

Able  logician  ! profound  reasoner  ! listen,  and  Nature  shall  find  a 
thousand  arguments  to  silence  your  presumption  ! Deign  only  to  fix 
your  inquiring  eyes  upon  this  feeble  plant,  which  the  munificence  of 
Heaven  has  called  into  existence  between  the  stones  of  your  prison  ! 
You  are  so  far  right  that  the  cotyledon  will  not  expand  so  as  to 
cover  with  its  protecting  wings  the  future  progress  of  the  plant 
Already  withering,  tlie3r  will  eventually  fall  and  decay.  But  they 
will  suffice  to  accomplish  the  purpose  of  nature.  So  long  as  the 
northern  wind  drives  down  from  the  Alps  their  heavy  fogs  or  sprink- 
ling of  sleet,  the  new  leaves  will  find  a retreat  impermeable  to  the 
chilly  ai^  calked  with  resinous  or  viscous  matter,  and  expanding  or 
closing  according  to  the  impulse  of  the  weather  ; when  finally,  dis- 
ten  led  by  a propitious  atmosphere,  the  leaflets  will  emerge  clinging 
to  each  other  for  mutual  support,  clothed  with  a furry  covering  of 
down  to  secure  them  against  the  fatal  influence  of  atmospheric 
changes.  Did  ever  mother  watch  more  tenderly  over  the  preserva- 
tion of  a child  ? Such  are  the  phenomena,  Sir  Count,  which  you 
might  long  ago  have  learned  to  admire  had  you  descended  from  the 
flighty  regions  of  human  science  to  study  the  humble  though  ma- 
jestic works  of  God  ! The  deeper  your  researches  the  more  posi- 
tive had  been  your  conviction  ; for  where  dangers  abound,  know 
that  the  protection  of  the  Providence  which  you  deny  is  vouchsafed 
a thousand  and  a thousand  fold  in  pity  to  the  blindness  of  mankind  1 

In  the  weariness  of  captivity  Charney  was  soon  satisfied  to  occupy 
his  idle  hours  by  directing  his  attention  to  the  transformations  of  the 
plant.  But  when  he  attempted  to  contend  with  it  in  argument,  the 
answers  of  the  vegetable  logician  were  too  much  for  him. 

*“  To  what  purpose  these  stiff  bristles,  disfiguring  a slender  stem  ?” 
demanded  the  count.  And  the  following  morning  he  found  them 
covered  with  rime  ; thanks  to  their  defence,  the  tender  bark  had 
been  secured  from  all  contact  with  the  frost. 

“ To  what  purpose,  for  the  summer  season,  this  winter  garment  of 
wool  and  down  ?”  he  again  inquired.  And  when  the  summer  season 
really  breathed  upon  the  plant,  he  found  the  new  shoots  array  them- 
selves in  their  light  spring  clothing,  the  downy  vestments,  now 
superfluous,  being  laid  aside. 

“Storms  may  be  still  impending  !”  cried  Charney,  with  a bitter 
smile  ; “ and  how  will  these  slender  and  flexile  shoots  resist  the  cut- 
ting hail,  the  driving  wind?”  But  when  the  stormy  rain  arose  and 
the  winds  blew,  the  slender  plant,  yielding  to  their  intemperance, 
replied  to  the  sneers  of  the  count  by  prudent  prostration.  Against 
the  hail  it  fortified  itself  by  a new  manoeuvre : the  leaves,  rapidly 
uprising,  adhered  to  the  stalks  for  protection,  presenting  to  the  at- 


PICCIOLA. 


17 


tacks  of  the  enemy  the  strong  and  prominent  nerves  of  their  inferior 
surface  ; and  union,  as  usual,  produced  strength.  Firmly  closed  to- 
gether ; they  defied  the  pelting  shower,  and  the  plant  remained  master 
of  the  field  ; not,  however,  without  having  experienced  wounds  and 
contusions,  which,  as  the  leaves  expanded  in  the  returning  sunshine, 
were  speedily  cicatrized  by  its  congenial  warmth. 

“ Is  chance  endowed  then  with  intelligence?”  cried  Charney. 
“ Must  we  admit  matter  to  be  spiritualized,  or  humiliate  the  world 
of  intelligence  into  materialism  ?” 

Still,  though  self-convicted,  he  could  not  refrain  from  interrogating 
his  mute  instructress.  He  delighted  in  watching,  day  by  day,  her 
spontaneous  metamorphoses.  Often,  after  having  examined  her 
progress,  he  found  himself  gradually  absorbed  in  reveries  of  a more 
cheering  nature  than  those  to  which  he  had  been  of  late  accustomed. 
He  tried  to  prolong  this  softened  mood  of  mind  by  loitering  in  the 
court  beside  the  plant ; and  one  day,  while  thus  employed,  he  hap- 
pened to  raise  his  eyes  toward  the  grated  window  and  saw  the  fly- 
catcher observing  him.  The  color  rose  to  his  cheek,  as  if  the  spy 
could  penetrate  the  subject  of  his  meditations  ; but  a smile  soon 
chased  away  the  blush.  He  no  longer  presumed  to  despise  his  com- 
rade in  misfortune.  He  too  had  been  engaged  in  contemplating  one 
of  the  simplest  creations  of  nature,  and  had  derived  comfort  from 
the  study. 

“ How  do  I know,”  argued  Charney,  “ that  the  Italian  may  not 
have  discovered  as  many  marvels  in  a fly  as  I in  a nameless  veg- 
etable ?” 

The  first  object  that  saluted  him  on  returning  to  his  chamber  after 
this  admission  was  the  following  sentence  inscribed  by  his  own 
hand  upon  the  wall,  a few  months  before  : 

“ Chance,  though  blind,  is  the  sole  author  of  the  crea- 
tion.” 

Seizing  a piece  of  charcoal,  Charney  instantly  qualified  the  asser- 
tion by  the  addition  of  a single  word — “ Perhaps.  ” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Charney  had  long  ceased  to  find  amusement  in  these  gratuitous 
mural  inscriptions  ; and  if  he  still  occasionally  played  the  sculptor 
with  his  wooden  table,  his  efforts  produced  nothing  now  but  germi- 
nating plants,  each  protected  by  a cotyledon  or  a sprig  of  foliage, 
whose  leaves  were  delicately  serrated  and  prominently  nerved.  The 
greater  portion  of  the  time  assigned  him  for  exercise  was  spent  in 
contemplation  of  his  plant,  in  examining  and  reasoning  upon  its  de- 
velopment. Even  after  his  return  to  his  chamber,  he  often  watched 


18 


PICCIOLA. 


the  little  solitary  through  his  prison- bars.  It  had  become  his  whim, 
his  bauble,  his  hobby — perhaps  only  to  be  discarded  like  other  pre- 
ceding favorites  ! 

One  morning,  as  he  stood  at  the  window,  he  observed  the  jailer, 
who  was  rapidly  traversing  the  courtyard,  pass  so  close  to  it  that  the 
stem  seemed  on  the  point  of  being  crushed  under  his  footsteps  ; and 
Charney  actually  shuddered  ! When  Ludovico  arrived  as  usual  with 
his  breakfast,  the  count  longed  to  entreat  the  man  would  be  careful 
in  sparing  the  solitary  ornament  of  his  walk  ; but  he  found  some 
difficulty  in  phrasing  so  puerile  an  entreaty.  Perhaps  the  Fenestrella 
system  of  prison  discipline  might  enforce  the  clearing  of  the  court 
from  weeds  or  other  vegetation.  It  might  be  a favor  he  was  about 
to  request,  and  the  count  possessed  no  worldly  means  for  the  requital 
of  a sacrifice  ; Ludovico  had  taxed  him  heavily  in  the  way  of  ransom 
for  the  various  objects  with  which  it  was  his  privilege  to  furnish 
the  prisoners  of  the  fortress. 

Besides,  he  had  scarcely  yet  exchanged  a word  with  the  fellow,  by 
whose  abrupt  manners  and  sordid  character  he  was  disgusted.  His 
pride  recoiled,  too,  from  placing  himself  in  the  same  rank  with  the 
fly-catcher,  toward  whom  Ludovico  had  acknowledgd  his  contempt. 
Then  there  was  the  chance  of  a refusal ! The  inferior,  whose  posi- 
tion raises  him  to  temporary  consequence,  is  seldom  sufficiently  master 
of  himself  to  bear  his  faculties  meekly,  incapable  of  understanding 
that  indulgence  is  a proof  of  power.  The  count  felt  that  it  would  be 
insupportable  to  him  to  find  himself  repulsed  by  a turnkey. 

At  length,  after  innumerable  oratorical  precautions,  and  the  exer- 
cise of  all  his  insight  into  the  foibles  of  human  nature,  Charney  com- 
menced a discourse,  logically  pre-concocted,  in  hopes  to  obtain  his 
end  without  the  sacrifice  of  his  dignity,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
of  his  pride. 

He  began  by  accosting  the  jailer  in  Italian,  by  way  of  propitiat- 
ing his  natural  prejudices,  and  calling  up  early  associations.  He  in- 
quired after  Ludovico’s  boy,  little  Antonio  ; and,  having  caused  this 
tender  string  to  vibrate,  took  from  his  dressing-box  a small  gilt  gob- 
let, and  charged  him  to  present  it  to  the  child. 

Ludovico  declined  the  gift,  but  refused  it  with  a smile,  and  Char- 
ney, though  somewhat  discountenanced,  resolved  to  persevere.  With 
adroit  circumlocution,  he  observed,  “ I am  aware  that  a toy,  a rattle, 
a flower,  would  be  a present  better  suited  to  Antonio’s  age  ; but  you 
can  sell  the  goblet  and  procure  those  trifles  in  abundance  with  the 
price.”  And,  lo,  & ptropos  of  flowers,  the  count  embarked  at  once 
into  his  subject. 

Patriotism,  paternal  love,  personal  interest,  every  influential  motive 
of  human  action,  were  thus  put  in  motion  in  order  to  accomplish  the 
preservation  of  a plant  ! Charney  could  scarcely  have  done  more 
for  his  own.  Jud^  whether  it  had  ingratiated  itself  into  his  affec- 
tions l 


PICCIOLA. 


19 


“ Signor  Conte /”  replied  Ludovico,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ha- 
rangue, “ riprendi  sua  nacchera  indorata!  Were  this  pretty  bauble 
missing  from  your  toilette-case,  its  companions  might  fret  after  it. 
At  three  months  old  my  bantling  has  scarce  wit  enough  to  drink  out 
of  a goblet ; and  with  respect  to  your  gilly-llower — ” 

“ Is  it  a gilly-flower  ?”  interrupted  Charney,  with  eagerness. 

“ Sac  d papions!  how  should  I know?  All  flowers  are  more  or 
less  gilly-flowers  ! But  as  to  sparing  the  life  of  yours,  eccellenza, 
methinks  the  request  comes  late  in  the  day.  My  boot  would  have 
been  better  acquainted  with  it  long  ago  had  I not  perceived  your 
partiality'  for  the  poor  weed  !” 

“Oh!  as  to  my  partiality,”  interrupted  Charney,  “I  beg  to 
assure  you — ” 

“ Ta,  ta,  ta,  ta  ! What  need  of  assurance?”  cried  Ludovico.  “ I 
know  whereabout  you  are  better  than  you  do.  Men  must  have 
something  to  love  ; and  state  prisoners  have  small  choice  allowed  them 
in  their  whims.  Why,  among  my  boarders  here,  Signor  Conte  (most 
of  whom  were  grand  gentry  and  great  wiseacres  in  their  day,  for  ’tis 
not  the  small  fry  they  send  into  harbor  at  Fenestrella),  you’d  be 
surprised  at  what  little  cost  they  manage  to  divert  themselves  ! One 
catches  flies — no  harm  in  that ; another” — and  Ludovico  winked 
knowingly,  to  signify  the  application — “ another  chops  a solid  deal 
table  into  chips,  without  considering  how  far  I may  be  responsible 
for  its  preservation.  ” The  count  vainly  tried  to  interpose  a Word. 
Ludovico  went  on  : “ Some  amuse  themselves  with  rearing  linnets 
and  goldfinches  ; others  have  a fancy  for  white  mice.  For  my  part, 
poor  souls,  I have  so  much  respect  for  their  pets — that  I had  a fine 
Angora  cat  of  my  own,  with  long  white  silken  hair — you’d  have  sworn 
’twas  a muff  when  ’twas  asleep  ! — a cat  that  my  wife  doated  on,  to 
say  nothing  of  myself.  Well,  I gave  it  away,  lest  the  creature  should 
take  a fancy  to  some  of  their  favorites.  All  the  cats  in  the  creation 
ought  not  to  weigh  against  so  much  as  a mouse  belonging  to  a cap- 
tive !” 

“Well  thought,  well  expressed,  my  worthy  friend  !”  cried  Char- 
ney, piqued  at  the  inference  which  degraded  him  to  the  level  of 
such  wretched  predilections.  “ But  know  that  this  plant  is  some- 
thing more  than  a kill-time.” 

“ What  signifies  ? so  it  serves  but  to  recall  to  your  mind  the  green 
tree  under  which  your  mother  hushed  your  infancy  to  rest,  per  Bacco  ! 
I give  it  leave  to  overshadow  half  the  court.  My  instructions  say 
nothing  about  weeding  or  hoeing,  so  e’en  let  it  grow  in  welcome  ! 
Were  it  to  turn  out  a tree  indeed,  so  as  to  assist  you  in  escalading 
the  walls,  the  case  were  different  ! But  there’s  time  before  us  to 
look  after  the  business — eh  ! eccellenzaV ’ said  the  jailer,  with  a coarse 
laugh.  “ Not  that  you  haven’t  my  best  wishes  for  the  recovery  of 
the  free  use  of  your  legs  and  lungs  ; but  all  must  come  in  course  of 
time,  and  the  regular  way.  For  if  you  were  to  make  an  attempt  to 
escape—” 


20 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Well ! and  if  I were  ?”  said  Charney,  with  a smile. 

“ Thunder  and  hail  ! you’d  find  Ludovico  a stout  obstacle  in 
your  way  ! I’d  order  the  sentry  to  fire  at  you  with  as  little  scruple 
as  at  a rabbit  ! Such  are  my  instructions  ! But  as  to  doing  mis 
chief  to  a poor  harmless  gilly-flower,  I look  upon  that  man  they  tell 
of  who  killed  the  pet  spider  of  the  prisoner  under  his  charge  as  a 
wretch  not  worthy  to  be  a jailer  ! ’Twas  a base  action,  eccdlenza — 
nay,  a crime  !” 

Charney  felt  amazed  and  touched  by  the  discovery  of  so  much 
sensibility  on  the  part  of  his  jailer.  But  now  that  he  had  begun  to 
entertain  an  esteem  for  the  man,  his  vanity  rendered  it  doubly  es- 
sential to  assign  a rational  motive  for  his  passion. 

“ Accept  my  thanks,  good  Ludovico,”  said  he,  <k  for  your  good-will. 
I own  that  the  plant  in  question  affords  me  scope  for  a variety  of 
scientific  observations.  I am  fond  of  studying  its  physiological 
phenomena.”  Then  (as  Ludovico's  vague  nodding  of  the  head  con- 
vinced him  that  the  poor  fellow  understood  not  a syllable  he  was 
saying)  he  added,  “ more  particularly  as  the  class  to  which  it  belongs 
possesses  medicinal  qualities  highly  favorable  to  a disorder  to  which 
I am  subject.” 

A falsehood  from  the  lips  of  the  noble  Count  de  Charney  ! and 
merely  to  evade  the  contempt  of  a jailer,  who,  for  the  moment,  rep- 
resented the  whole  human  species  in  the  eyes  of  the  captive. 

“ Indeed  !”  cried  Ludovico  ; “ then  all  I have  to  say  is,  that  if 
the  poor  thing  is  so  serviceable  to  you,  you  are  not  so  grateful  to 
it  as  you  ought  to  be.  If  I hadn’t  been  at  the  pains  of  watering  it 
for  you  now  and  then,  on  my  way  hither  with  your  meals,  la  povera 
picciola  would  have  died  of  thirst.  Addio,  Signor  Conte  ! ’ ’ 

‘‘ One  moment,  my  good  friend,”  exclaimed  Charney,  more  and 
more  amazed  to  discover  such  delicacy  of  mind  so  roughly  inclosed, 
and  repentant  at  having  so  long  mistaken  the  character  of  his  jailer. 
“ Since  you  have  interested  yourself  in  my  pursuits,  and  without 
vaunting  your  services,  accept,  I entreat  you,  this  small  memento  of 
my  gratitude  ! Should  better  times  await  me,  I will  not  forget  you  !” 

And  once  more  he  tendered  the  goblet ; which  this  time  Ludovico 
examined  with  a sort  of  vague  curiosity. 

“ Gratitude,  for  what,  Signor  Conte?"  said  he.  “A  plant  wants 
nothing  but  a sprinkling  of  water  ; and  one  might  furnish  a whole 
parterre  of  them  in  their  cups  without  ruining  one’s  self  at  the  tavern. 
If  la  picciola  diverts  you  from  your  cares,  and  provides  you  with  a 
specific,  enough  said,  and  God  speed  her  growth.” 

And  having  crossed  the  room  he  quietly  replaced  the  goblet  in  its 
compartment  of  the  dressing-box. 

Charney,  rushing  toward  Ludovico,  now  offered  him  his  hand. 

“ No,  no  !”  exclaimed  the  jailer,  assuming  an  attitude  of  respect 
and  constraint.  ‘ ‘ Hands  are  to  be  shaken  only  between  equals  and 
friends.” 


PICCIOLA. 


21 


“ Be  my  friend,  then,  Ludovico  !”  cried  the  count. 

“ No,  eccellenza,  no  !”  replied  the  turnkey.  “ A jailer  must  be  on 
his  guard,  in  order  to  perform  his  duties  like  a man  of  conscience,  to- 
day, to-morrow,  and  every  day  of  the  week.  If  you  were  my 
friend,  according  to  my  notions  of  the  word,  how  should  I be  able  to 
call  out  to  the  sentinel  Fire  ! if  I saw  you  swimming  across  the 
moat  ? I am  fated  to  remain  your  keeper,  jailer,  e divotissimo  servo!1' 


CHAPTER  V. 

In  the  course  of  his  solitary  meditations,  after  Ludovico’s  depart- 
ure, Charney  was  compelled  to  admit  that,  in  his  relations  with  the 
jailer,  the  man  of  genius  and  education  had  fallen  below  the  level  of 
the  man  of  the  people.  To  what  wretched  subterfuges  had  he  de- 
scended, in  order  to  practise  upon  the  feelings  of  this  kind-hearted 
and  simple  being.  He  had  even  soiled  his  noble  lips  with  an  un- 
truth. 

He  was  startled  to  discover  the  services  recently  rendered  by  Lu- 
dovico to  the  “ 'povera  picciola."  The  boor,  the  jailer,  morose  only 
when  invited  to  a breach  of  duty,  had  actually  watched  him  in  secret, 
not  to  exult  over  his  weakness,  but  to  render  him  a service  ; nay, 
by  his  obstinate  disinterestedness  the  man  persisted  in  imposing  an 
obligation  on  the  Count  de  Charney. 

In  his  walk  next  morning  the  count  hastened  to  share,  with  his 
little  favorite,  the  cruse  of  water  allotted  to  his  use  ; not  only  water- 
ing the  roots  but  sprinkling  the  plant  itself,  to  refresh  its  leaves  from 
dust  or  insects.  While  thus  occupied,  the  sky  became  darkened  by 
a thunder-cloud,  suspended  like  a black  dome  over  the  turrets  of  the 
fortress.  Large  raindrops  began  to  fall,  and  Charney  was  about  to 
take  refuge  in  his  room  when  a few  hailstones,  mingling  with  the 
rain,  pattered  down  on  the  pavement  of  the  court.  La  povera  picciola 
seemed  on  the  point  of  being  uprooted  by  the  whirlwind  which  ac- 
companied the  storm.  Her  dishevelled  branches  and  leaves,  shrinking 
up  toward  their  stalks  for  protection  against  the  chilling  shower, 
trembled  with  every  driving  blast  of  wind  that  howled,  as  if  in  tri 
umph,  through  the  court. 

Charney  paused.  Recalling  to  mind  the  reproaches  of  Ludovico, 
he  looked  eagerly  around  for  some  object  to  defend  his  plant  from 
the  storm,  but  nothing  could  be  seen.  The  hailstones  came  rattling 
down  with  redoubled  force,  threatening  destruction  to  its  tender 
stem  ; and,  notwithstanding  Charney’s  experience  of  its  power  of  re- 
sistance against  such  attacks,  he  grew  uneasy  for  its  safety.  With 
an  effort  of  tenderness  worthy  of  a father  or  a lover,  he  stationed 
himself  between  his  protegee  and  the  wind,  bending  over  her  to 


22 


PICCIOLA. 


secure  her  from  the  hail,  and,  breathless  with  his  struggles  against 
the  violence  of  the  storm,  devoted  himself,  like  a martyr,  to  the  de- 
fence of  la  picciola. 

At  length  the  hurricane  subsided.  But  might  not  a recurrence  of 
the  mischief  bring  destruction  to  his  favorite,  at  some  moment  when 
bolts  and  bars  divided  her  from  her  protector?  He  had  already 
found  cause  to  tremble  for  her  safety,  when  the  wife  of  Ludovico, 
accompanied  by  a huge  mastiff,  one  of  the  guardians  of  the  prison, 
occasionally  traversed  the  yard  ; for  a single  stroke  with  its  paw  or 
a snap  of  its  mouth  might  have  annihilated  the  darling  of  the  phil- 
osophical captive  ; and  Charney  accordingly  passed  the  remainder 
of  the  day  in  concocting  a plan  of  fortification. 

The  moderate  portion  of  wood  allowed  him  for  fuel  scarcely  sup- 
plied his  wants  in  a climate  whose  nights  and  mornings  are  so  chilly, 
in  a chamber  debarred  from  all  warmth  of  sunshine.  Yet  he  re- 
sol  \red  to  sacrifice  his  comfort  to  the  safety  of  the  plant.  He  prom- 
ised himself  to  retire  earlier  to  rest,  and  rise  latter  ; by  which 
means,  after  a few  days’  self-denial,  he  amassed  sufficient  wood  for 
his  purpose. 

“ Glad  to  see  you  have  more  fuel  than  you  require,”  cried  Ludo- 
vico, on  noticing  the  little  stock.  ‘ ‘ Shall  I clear  the  room  for  you 
of  all  this  lumber?” 

“Not  for  the  world,”  replied  Charney,  with  a smile.  “I  am 
hoarding  it  lo  build  a palace  for  my  lady-love.” 

The  jailer  gave  a knowing  wink,  which  signified,  however,  that 
he  understood  not  a word  about  the  matter. 

Meanwhile  Charney  set  about  splitting  and  pointing  the  uprights 
of  his  bastions  ; and  carefully  laid  aside  the  osier  bands  which  served 
to  tie  up  his  daily  fagots.  He  next  tore  from  his  trunk  its  lining  of 
coarse  cloth  ; out  of  which  he  drew  the  strongest  threads  ; and  his 
materials  thus  prepared,  he  commenced  his  operations  the  moment 
the  rules  of  the  prison  and  the  exactitude  of  the  jailer  would  admit. 
He  surrounded  his  plant  with  palisades  of  unequal  height,  care- 
fully inserted  between  the  stones  of  the  pavement  and  secured  at 
the  base  by  a cement  of  earth,  laboriously  collected  from  the  inter- 
stices, and  mortar  and  saltpetre  secretly  abstracted  from  the  ancient 
turret  walls  around  him.  When  the  labors  of  the  carpenter  and 
mason  were  achieved,  he  began  to  interlace  his  scaffolding  at  inter- 
vals with  split  osier,  to  screen  la  picciola  from  the  shock  of  exterior 
objects. 

The  completion  of  his  work  acquired,  during  its  progress,  new 
importance  in  his  eyes,  from  the  opposition  of  Ludovico.  The 
jailer  shook  his  head  and  grumbled  when  first  he  noticed  the  under- 
taking. But  before  the  close  of  the  performance  the  kind-hearted 
fellow  withdrew  his  disapprobation;  nay,  would  even  smoke  his 
pipe,  leaning  against  the  wicket  of  the  courtyard,  and  watching, 
with  a smile,  the  efforts  of  the  unpractised  mechanic  ; interrupting 


PICCIOLA. 


23 


himself  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  favorite  recreation,  however,  to 
favor  Charney  with  occasional  counsels,  the  results  of  his  own  ex- 
perience. 

The  work  progressed  rapidly  ; but,  to  render  it  perfect,  the  count 
was  under  the  necessity  of  sacrificing  a portion  of  his  scanty  bed 
ding  ; purloining  handfuls  of  straw  from  his  palliasse,  in  order  to 
band  up  the  interstices  of  his  basket-work,  as  a shelter  against  the 
mountain  wind  and  the  fierceness  of  the  meridian  sun,  which  in 
summer  would  be  reflected  from  the  flint  of  the  adjacent  wall. 

One  evening  a sudden  breeze  arose,  after  Charney  had  been 
locked  up  for  the  night,  and  the  yard  was  quickly  strewn  with  scat- 
tered straws  and  slips  of  osier,  which  had  not  been  worked  in  with 
sufficient  solidity.  Charney  promised  himself  to  counteract  next 
day  the  ill  effects  of  his  carelessness  ; but  on  reaching  the  court  at 
the  usual  hour  he  found  that  all  the  mischief  had  been  neatly  re- 
paired ; a hand  more  expert  than  his  own  had  replaced  the  matting 
and  palisades.  It  was  not  difficult  to  guess  to  whom  he  was  in- 
debted for  this  friendly  interposition.  Meanwhile,  thanks  to  her 
friend — thanks  to  her  friends — the  plant  was  now  secured  by  solid 
ramparts  and  roofing  ; and  Charney,  attaching  himself,  according  to 
the  common  frailty  of  human  nature,  more  tenderly  to  the  object  on 
which  he  was  conferring  obligation,  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  the 
plant  expand  with  redoubled  powers  and  acquire  new  beauties  every 
hour.  It  was  a matter  of  deep  interest  to  observe  the  progress  of  its 
consolidation.  The  herbaceous  stem  was  now  acquiring  ligneous 
consistency.  A glossy  bark  began  to  surround  the  fragile  stalk, 
and  already  the  gratified  proprietor  of  this  gratuitous  treasure  en- 
tertained eager  hopes  of  the  appearance  of  flowers  among  its  leaves. 
The  man  of  paralyzed  nerves,  the  man  of  frost-bound  feelings,  had 
at  length  found  something  to  wish  for  ! The  action  of  his  lofty  in- 
tellect was  at  last  concentrated  into  adoration  of  an  herb  of  the  field. 
Even  as  the  celebrated  Quaker,  John  Bertram,  resolved,  after  study- 
ing for  hours  the  organization  of  a violet,  to  apply  his  powers  of 
mind  to  the  analysis  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  and  eventually  ac- 
quired high  eminence  among  the  masters  of  botanical  science,  Char- 
ney became  a natural  philosopher. 

A learned  pundit  of  Malabar  is  said  to  have  lost  his  reason  in  at- 
tempting to  expound  the  phenomena  of  the  sensitive  plant.  But  the 
Count  de  Charney  seemed  likely  to  be  restored  to  the  use  of  his  by 
studies  of  a similar  nature  ; and,  sane  or  insane,  he  had  at  least  al- 
ready extracted  from  his  plant  an  arcanum  sufficiently  potent  to  dis- 
pel the  weariness  of  ennui  and  enlarge  the  limit  of  his  captivity. 

“If  it  would  but  flower  !”  he  frequently  exclaimed.  “ What  a 
delight  to  hail  the  opening  of  its  first  blossom  ! a blossom  whose 
beauty,  whose  fragrance,  will  be  developed  for  the  sole  enjoyment 
of  my  eager  senses.  What  will  be  its  color,  I wonder?  what  the 
form  of  its  petals  ? Time  will  show.  Perhaps  they  may  afford  ney 


24 


P1CCI0LA. 


premises  for  conjecture,  new  problems  for  solution.  Perhaps  the 
conceited  gypsy  will  offer  a new  challenge  to  my  understanding  ? So 
much  the  better  ! Let  my  little  adversaty  arm  herself  with  all  her 
powers  of  argument.  I will  not  prejudge  the  case.  Perhaps,  when 
thus  complete,  the  secret  of  her  mysterious  nature  will  be  apparent  ? 
How  I long  for  the  moment  ! Bloom,  picciola  ! bloom,  and  reveal 
yourself  in  all  your  beauty  to  him  to  whom  you  are  indebted  for  the 
preservation  of  your  life  !” 

“ Picciola  !”  Such  is  the  name  then,  which,  borrowed  from  the 
lips  of  Ludovico,  Charney  has  involuntarily  bestowed  upon  his  favor- 
ite ! “ Picciola,”  Id  povera picciola,  was  the  designation  so  tenderly 

appropriated  by  the  jailer  to  the  poor  little  thing  which  Charney’s 
neglect  had  almost  allowed  to  perish. 

“ Picciola  !”  murmured  the  solitary  captive,  when  every  morning 
he  carefully  searched  its  already  tufted  foliage  for  indications  of  in- 
florescence ; “ when  will  these  wayward  flowers  make  their  appear- 
ance?” The  count  seemed  to  experience  pleasure  in  the  mere  pro- 
nunciation of  a name  uniting  in  his  mind  the  images  of  the  two  ob- 
jects which  peopled  his  solitude — his  jailer  and  his  plant  ! 

Returning  one  morning  to  the  accustomed  spot,  and,  as  usual,  in- 
terrogating Picciola  branch  by  branch,  leaf  by  leaf,  his  eyes  were 
suddenly  attracted  toward  a shoot  of  unusual  form  gracing  the 
principal  stem  of  the  plant.  He  felt  the  beatings  of  his  heart  accel- 
erated, and,  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  the  color  rose  to  his  cheek  as 
he  stooped  for  re-examination  of  the  event.  The  spherical  shape  of 
the  excrescence  which  presented  itself,  green,  bristly,  and  imbricated 
with  glossy  scales,  like  the  slates  of  a rounded  dome  surmounting  an 
elegant  kiosk,  announced  a bud  ! Eureka  !— a flower  must  be  at 
hand  ! 


CHAPTER  YI. 

The  fly-catcher,  who  occasionally  made  his  appearance  at  his 
grated  window,  seemed  to  take  delight  in  watching  the  assiduities  of 
Charney  toward  his  favorite  ! He  had  observed  the  count  compose 
his  cement,  weave  his  osier-work,  erect  his  palisades  ; and,  admon- 
ished by  his  own  long  captivity  of  the  moral  influence  of  such  pur- 
suits, readily  conjectured  that  a whole  system  of  philosophy  was  de- 
veloping itself  in  the  mind  of  his  fellow-prisoner. 

One  memorable  day  a new  face  made  its  appearance  at  the  win- 
dow— a female  face — fair  and  fresh  and  young.  The  stranger  was  a 
girl,  whose  demeanor  appeared  at  once  timid  and  lively  ; modesty 
regulated  the  movements  of  her  well-turned  head  and  the  brilliancy 
of  her  animated  eyes,  whose  glances  were  veiled  by  long  silken  eye- 
lashes of  raven  darkness.  As  she  stood  behind  the  heavy  grating,  on 


PIOCIOLA. 


25 


which  her  fair  hand  bent  for  support,  her  brow  inclining  in  the 
shade  as  if  in  a meditative  mood,  she  might  have  stood  for  a chaste 
personification  of  the  nymph  Captivity.  But  when  her  brow  was 
uplifted,  and  the  joyous  light  of  day  fell  on  her  lovely  countenance, 
the  harmony  and  serenity  of  her  features,  her  delicate  but  brilliant 
complexion  proclaimed  that  it  was  in  the  free  air  of  liberty  she  had 
been  nurtured,  not  under  the  dispiriting  influence  of  the  bolts  and 
bars  of  a dungeon.  She  was,  perhaps,  one  of  those  tutelary  angels 
of  charity  whose  lives  are  passed  in  soothing  the  sick  and  solacing 
the  captive  ? No  ! the  instinct  which  brought  the  fair  stranger  to 
Fenestrella  was  still  more  puissant — even  that  of  filial  duty.  Only 
daughter  to  Girardi  the  Fly-catcher,  Teresa  had  abandoned  the  gay 
promenades  and  festivities  of  Turin  and  the  banks  of  the  Doria- 
Riparia  to  inhabit  the  cheerless  town  of  Fenestrella  ; not  that  her 
residence  near  the  fortress  afforded  free  access  to  her  father  ; for 
some  time  she  found  it  impossible  to  obtain  even  a momentary  in- 
terview with  the  prisoner.  But  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  him, 
and  think  of  him  nearer  to  herself,  was  some  solace  to  her  affliction. 
This  was  her  first  time  of  admittance  into  the  long-interdicted  citadel ; 
and  such  is  the  origin  of  the  delight  which  Charney  sees  beaming  in 
her  eyes  and  the  color  which  he  observes  mantling  on  her  cheek. 
Restored  to  the  arms  of  her  father,  Teresa  Girardi  has  indeed  a right 
to  look  gay  and  glad  and  lovely  ! 

It  was  a sentiment  of  curiosity  which  attracted  her  to  the  win- 
dow ; a feeling  of  interest  soon  attaches  her  to  the  spot.  The 
noble  prisoner  and  his  occupation  excite  her  attention  ; but  finding 
herself  noticed  in  her  turn  she  tries  to  recede  from  observation,  as  if 
convicted  of  unbecoming  boldness.  Teresa  has  nothing  to  fear  ! 
The  Count  de  Charney,  engrossed  by  Picciola  and  her  flower-bud,  has 
not  a thought  to  throw  away  on  any  rival  beauty  ! 

A week  afterward,  when  the  young  girl  was  admitted  to  pay  a 
second  visit  to  her  father,  she  turned  her  steps,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, toward  the  grated  window  for  a glimpse  of  the  prisoner, 
when  Girardi,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  exclaimed,  “ My  fel- 
low-prisoner has  not  been  near  his  plant  these  three  days.  The  poor 
gentleman  must  be  seriously  ill.” 

“ 111 ; seriously  ill  !”  exclaimed  Teresa,  with  emotion. 

“ I have  noticed  more  than  one  physician  traversing  the  court ; 
and  from  what  I can  learn  from  Ludovico  they  agree  only  on  a single 
point — that  the  Count  de  Charney  will  die.” 

“Die!”  again  reiterated  the  young  girl,  with  dilating  eyes,  and 
terror  rather  than  pity  expressed  in  her  countenance.  “ Unhappy 
man  ! unhappy  man  !”  Then  turning  toward  her  father,  with  horror 
in  her  looks,  she  exclaimed,  “ People  die  then  in  this  miserable 
place  ?” 

“Yes,  the  exhalations  from  the  old  moats  have  infected  the  cita- 
del with  fever.  ” 


26 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Father,  dearest  father  !” 

She  paused  : tears  were  gathering  under  her  eyelids,  and  Girardi, 
deeply  moved  by  her  affliction,  extended  his  hand  tenderly  toward 
her.  Teresa  seized  and  covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses. 

At  that  moment  Ludovico  made  his  appearance.  He  came  to  pre- 
sent to  the  fly-catcher  a new  captive  whom  he  had  just  arrested — 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a dragon-fly  with  golden  wings,  which  he 
offered  with  a triumphant  smile  to  Girardi.  The  fly-catcher  smiled, 
thanked  his  jailer,  and,  unobserved  by  Ludovico,  set  the  insect  at 
liberty  ; for  it  was  the  twentieth  individual  of  the  same  species  with 
which  he  had  furnished  him  during  the  last  few  days.  He  profited, 
however,  by  the  jailer’s  visit  to  ask  tidings  of  his  fellow-prisoner. 

“ Santissimo  miopadrono  ! do  you  fancy  I neglect  the  poor  fellow  ?’  ’ 
cried  Ludovico  gruffly  ; “ though  still  under  my  charge,  he  will  soon 
be  under  that  of  St.  Peter.  I have  just  been  watering  his  favorite 
tree.” 

“ To  what  purpose,  since  he  is  never  to  behold  its  blossoms  V9  in- 
terrupted the  daughter  of  Girardi. 

“ Per  die,  damigella—perche  ?”  cried  the  jailer,  with  his  accus- 
tomed wink,  and  sawing  the  air  with  a rude  hand,  of  which  the  fore- 
finger was  authoritatively  extended  ; “ because  though  the  doctors 
have  decided  that  the  sick  man  has  taken  an  eternal  lease  of  the  flat 
of  his  back,  I,  Ludovico,  jailer  of  Fenestrella,  am  of  a different  opin- 
ion. Non  lo  credo — trondidio  ! I have  notions  of  my  own  on  the 
subject.” 

And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  departed,  assuming,  as  he  left  the 
room,  his  big  voice  of  authority,  to  acquaint  the  poor  girl  that  only 
twenty-two  minutes  remained  of  the  time  allotted  for  her  visit  to  her 
father.  And  at  the  appointed  minute,  to  a second,  he  returned  and 
executed  his  duty  of  shutting  her  out. 

The  illness  of  Charney  was  indeed  of  a serious  nature.  One  even- 
ing, after  his  customary  visit  to  Picciola,  an  attack  of  faintness  over- 
powered him  on  regaining  his  room  ; when,  rather  than  summon  as- 
sistance, he  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  with  aching  brows,  and  limbs 
agitated  by  a nervous  shivering.  He  fancied  sleep  would  suffice  for 
his  restoration. 

But  instead  of  sleep  came  pain  and  fever  ; and  on  the  morrow, 
when  he  tried  to  rise,  an  influence  more  potent  than  his  will  nailed 
him  to  his  pallet.  Closing  his  eyes,  the  count  resigned  himself  to 
his  sufferings.  In  the  face  of  danger,  the  calmness  of  the  philosopher 
and  the  pride  of  the  conspirator  returned.  He  would  have  felt  dis- 
honored by  a cry  or  murmur,  or  an  appeal  to  the  aid  of  those  by 
whom  he  was  sequestered  from  the  breathing  world  ; contenting 
himself  with  instructions  to  Ludovico  respecting  the  care  of  his  plant 
in  case  he  should  be  detained  in  bed,  the  carcere  duro , which  was  to 
render  still  harder  his  original  captivity.  Physicians  were  called  in, 
and  he  refused  to  reply  to  their  questioning.  Charney  seemed  to  fancy 


PICCIOLA. 


27 


that,  no  longer  master  of  his  existence,  he  was  exempted  from  all 
care  for  his  life.  His  health  was  a portion  of  his  confiscated  property  ; 
and  those  who  had  appropriated  all  might  administer  to  that  among 
the  rest.  At  first  the  doctors  attempted  to  overcome  his  spirit  of 
perversity  ; but  finding  the  sick  man  obstinately  silent  they  began  to 
interrogate  his  disorder  instead  of  his  temper. 

The  pathognomonic  symptoms,  to  which  they  addressed  them- 
selves, replied  in  various  dialects  and  opposite  senses  ; for  the  learned 
doctors  invested  their  questions  each  in  the  language  of  a different 
system.  In  the  livid  hue  of  Charney's  lips  and  the  dilated  pupils  of 
his  eyes  one  saw  symptoms  of  putrid  fever  ; another  of  inflamma- 
tion of  the  viscera  ; while  the  third  inferred,  from  the  coloration  of 
the  neck  and  temples,  the  coldness  of  the  extremities,  and  the  rigidity 
of  the  countenance,  that  the  disorder  was  paralytic  or  apoplectic  ; 
protesting  that  the  silence  of  the  patient  was  involuntary,  the  result  of 
the  cerebral  congestion. 

Twice  did  the  captain-commandant  of  the  fortress  deign  to  visit 
the  bedside  of  the  prisoner — the  first  time  to  inquire  whether  the 
count  had  any  personal  requests  to  make,  whether  he  was  desirous  of 
a change  of  lodging,  or  fancied  the  locality  had  exercised  an  evil  in- 
fluence over  his"  health  ; to  all  which  questions  Charney  replied  by  a 
negative  movement  of  the  head.  The  second  time  he  came  accom- 
panied by  a priest.  The  count  had  been  given  over  by  his  doctors  as 
in  a hopeless  state.  His  time  was  expired  ; it  became  necessary  to 
prepare  him  for  eternity  ; and  the  functions  of  the  commandant  re- 
quired that  he  should  see  the  last  consolations  of  religion  adminis- 
tered to  his  dying  prisoner. 

Of  all  the  duties  of  the  sacerdotal  office,  the  most  august  perhaps 
are  those  of  the  ordinary  of  a prison — of  the  priest  Whose  presence 
sanctifies  the  aspect  of  the  gibbet  ! Yet  the  scepticism  of  modern 
times  has  flung  its  bitter  mockeries  in  the  face  of  these  devoted 
men!  “Hardening  their  hearts  under  the  cuirass  of  habit,”  says 
the  voice  of  the  scorner,  “ these  officials  become  utterly  insensible. 
They  forget  to  weep  with  the  condemned,  they  forget  to  weep  for 
them,  and  the  routine  of  their  professional  exhortations  has  neither 
grace  nor  inspiration  in  its  forms  of  prayer.” 

Alas  ! of  what  avail  were  the  most  varied  efforts  of  eloquence, 
since  the  exhortation  is  fated  to  reach  but  once  the  ear  of  the  vic- 
tim ! Alas  ! what  need  to  inveigh  against  a calling  which  condemns 
the  pure  and  virtuous  to  live  surrounded  by  the  profligate  and  hard 
hearted,  who  reply  to  their  words  of  peace  and  love  with  insults,  im- 
precations, and  contempt  ? Like  yourselves,  these  devoted  men 
might  have  tasted  the  luxuries  and  enjoyments  of  life,  instead  of 
braving  the  contact  of  the  loathsome  rags  of  misery  and  the  infected 
atmosphere  of  a dungeon.  Endued  with  human  sensibilities,  and 
that  horror  of  sights  of  blood  and  death  inherent  in  all  mankind,  they 
compel  themselves  to  behold,  year  after  year,  the  gory  knife  of  the 


28 


PICCIOLA. 


guillotine  descend  on  the  neck  of  the  malefactor  ; and  such  is  the 
spectacle,  such  the  enjoyment,  which  men  of  the  world  denounce  as 
likely  to  wTear  down  their  hearts  to  insensibility  ! 

In  place  of  this  “ man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief,”  de- 
voted for  a lapse  of  years  to  this  dreadful  function — in  place  of  this 
humble  Christian,  who  has  made  himself  the  comrade  of  the  execu- 
tioner, summon  a new  priest  to  the  aid  of  every  criminal  ! It  is  true 
he  will  be  more  deeply  moved  ; it  is  true  his  tears  will  fall  more 
readily  ; but  will  he  be  more  capable  of  the  task  of  imparting  conso- 
lation ? His  words  are  rendered  incoherent  by  tears  and  sobs  ; his 
mind  is  distracted  by  agitation.  The  emotion  of  which  he  is  so 
deeply  susceptible  will  communicate  itself  to  the  condemned,  and  en- 
feeble his  courage  at  the  moment  of  rendering  up  his  life  a sacrifice 
to  the  well-being  of  society.  If  the  fortitude  of  the  new  almoner  be 
such  as  enables  him  to  command  at  once  composure  in  his  calling, 
be  assured  that  his  heart  is  a thousand  times  harder  than  that  of  the 
most  experienced  ordinary. 

No  ; cast  not  a stone  at  the  prison-priest ; throw  no  additional  ob- 
stacles in  the  way  of  so  painful  a duty  ! Deprive  not  the  con- 
demned of  their  last  friend.  Let  the  cross  of  Christ  interpose,  as  he 
ascends  the  scaffold,  between  the  eyes  of  the  criminal  and  the  fatal 
axe  of  the  executioner.  Let  his  last  looks  fall  upon  an  object  pro- 
claiming, trumpet-tongued,  that  after  the  brief  vengeance  of  man 
comes  the  everlasting  mercy  of  God  ! 

The  priest  summoned  to  the  bedside  of  Charney  was  fortunately 
worthy  of  his  sacred  functions.  Fraught  with  tenderness  for  suffer- 
ing humanity,  he  read  at  once,  in  the  obstinate  silence  of  the  count 
and  the  withering  sentences  which  disfigured  his  prison  walls,  how 
little  was  to  be  expected  of  so  imperious  and  scornful  a spirit  ; and 
satisfied  himself  with  passing  the  night  in  prayers  by  his  bedside, 
charitably  officiating  with  Ludovico  in  the  services  indispensable  to 
the  sufferer.  The  Christian  priest  waited,  as  for  the  light  of  dawn- 
ing day,  an  auspicious  moment  to  brighten  with  a ray  of  hope  the 
fearful  darkness  of  incredulity  ! 

In  the  course  of  that  critical  night,  the  blood  of  the  patient  deter- 
mining to  the  brain  produced  transports  of  delirium,  necessitating 
restraint  to  prevent  the  unfortunate  count  from  dashing  himself  out 
of  bed.  As  he  struggled  in  the  arms  of  Ludovico  and  the  priest,  a 
thousand  incoherent  exclamations  and  wild  apostrophes  burst  from 
his  lips  ; among  which  the  words  “ Picciola,  povera  Picciola!”  were 
distinctly  audible. 

“ Andiamo  !”  cried  Ludovico,  the  moment  he  caught  the  sound. 
“ The  moment  is  come  ! Yes,  yes,  the  count  is  right — the  moment 
is  come,”  he  reiterated  with  impatience.  But  how  was  he  to  leave 
the  poor  chaplain  there  alone,  exposed  to  all  the  violence  of  a mad- 
man ? “In  another  hour  it  may  be  too  late!”  cried  Ludovico. 
“ Corpo  di  Dio!  it  will  be  too  late.  Blessed  Virgin,  methinks  he  is 


PICCIOLA.' 


29 


growing  calmer  ! Yes,  be  droops  !— he  closes  his  eyes  !— he  is  sink- 
ing to  sleep  ! If  at  mv  return  he  is  still  alive,  all’s  well.  Hurra  ! 
revei end  father,  we  shall  yet  preserve  him  ; hurra  ! hurra  !” 

And  away  went  Ludovico,  satisfied,  now  the  excitement  of  Char- 
ney’s  delirium  was  appeased,  to  leave  him  in  the  charge  of  the  kind 
hearted  priest. 

In  the  chamber  of  death,  lighted  by  the  feeble  flame  of  a flickering 
lamp,  nothing  now  was  audible  but  the  i?  regular  bnathing  of  the 
dying  man,  the  murmured  prayers  of  the  priest,  and  the  breezes  of 
the  Alps  whistling  through  the  grating  of  the  prison  window.  Twice, 
indeed,  a human  voice  mingled  in  these  monotonous  sounds— the 
“ qui  rive  f"  of  the  sentinel,  as  Ludovico  passed  and  repassed  the  pos- 
tern, on  his  way  to  his  lodge  and  back  to  the  chamber  of  the  count. 
At  the  expiration  of  half  an  hour  the  chaplain  welcomed  the  return 
of  the  jailer,  bearing  in  his  hand  a cup  of  steaming  liquid. 

"Santo  Orisfo!  I had  half  a mind  to  kill  my  dog  !”  sail  Ludo- 
vico as  he  entered.  “ The  brute,  on  seeing  me,  set  up  a howl,  which 
is  a sign  of  evil  portent!  But  how  have  you  been  going  on  here? 
Has  he  m ived  t No  matter  ! I have  brought  something  that  will 
soon  set  mm  to  rights  ! I have  made  bold  to  taste  it  myself  ! bitter, 
saving  your  reverence’s  presence,  as  five  hundred  thousand  cliavoli  ! 
Pardon  me,  mio  padre /” 

But  the  priest  gently  put  aside  the  offered  cup. 

“ After  all,”  said  Ludovico,  “ ’tis  not  the  stuff  for  us.  A pint  of 
good  museadello  warmed,  with  a slice  or  two  of  lemon,  is  a better 
thing  for  sitters-up  with  the  sick— eh  ! Signore  Capellano?  But  this 
is  the  job  for  the  poor  count  ; this  will  put  things  in  their  places.  He 
mud  drink  it  to  the  last  drop  ; for  so  says  the  prescription.” 

An  5,  w tie  spoke,  Ludovico  kept  pouring  the  draught  from  one 
cup  t > another,  and  blowing  to  cool  it  ; till,  having  reduced  it  to  the 
propei  temperature,  he  forced  the  lialf-insensible  count  to  swallow 
the  whole  potion,  while  the  chaplain  supported  his  shoulders  for  the 
effort.  Tnen,  covering  the  patient  closely  up,  they  drew  together  the 
curtains  of  the  bed. 

“ We  shall  soon  see  the  effects,”  observed  the  jailer  to  his  compan- 
ion. ” I (han't  stir  from  hence  till  all  is  right.  My  birds  are  safe 
locked  in  their  cages  ; my  wife  has  got  the  babe  to  keep  her  com- 
pany. Wh  it  say  you,  Signore  Capellano ?” 

And  Ludovico’s  garrulity  having  been  silenced  by  the  almoner, 
by  a motion  of  the  hand,  the  poor  fellow  stationed  himself  in 
silence  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dying  man  ; 
retaining  his  very  breath  in  the  anxiousness  of  his  watchfulness  for 
the  event.  At  length,  perceiving  no  sign  of  change  in  the  count,  he 
grew  uneasy.  Apprehensive  of  having  accelerated  the  last  fatal 
change,  he  started  up  and  began  pacing  the  room,  snapping  his 
fingers,  and  addressing  menacing  gestures  to  the  cup,  which  was  still 
standing  on  the  table. 


30 


PICCIOLA. 


Suddenly  he  stopped  short  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  livid  face  of 
Charney. 

“ I have  been  the  death  of  him,”  cried  he,  accompanying  the  apos- 
trophe with  a tremendous  oath.  “ I have  certainly  been  the  death  of 
him.” 

The  chaplain  raised  his  head,  when  Ludovico,  unappalled  by  his 
air  of  consternation,  began  anew  to  pace  the  room,  to  stamp,  to  swear, 
to  snap  his  fingers  with  all  the  energy  of  Italian  gesticulation,  till, 
tired  out  by  his  own  impetuosity,  he  threw  himself  on  his  knees  be- 
side the  priest,  hiding  his  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  murmuring  his 
mea  culpa  till,  in  the  midst  of  a pater-noster,  he  fell  asleep. 

At  dawn  of  day  the  chaplain  was  still  praying  and  Ludovico  still 
snoring,  when  a burning  hand,  placed  upon  the  forehead  of  the  lat- 
ter, suddenly  roused  him  from  his  slumbers. 

“ Give  me  some  drink,”  murmured  the  faint  voice  of  Charney. 

And  at  the  sound  of  a voice  which  he  had  supposed  to  be  forever 
silenced,  Ludovico  opened  his  eyes  wide  with  stupefaction  to  fix  them 
on  the  count,  upon  whose  face  and  limbs  the  moisture  of  an  auspi- 
cious effort  of  nature  was  perceptible.  The  fever  was  yielding  to  the 
effect  of  the  powerful  sudorific  administered  by  Ludovico  ; and  the 
senses  of  Charney  being  now  restored,  he  proceeded  to  give  rational 
directions  to  the  jailer  concerning  the  mode  of  treatment  to  be 
adopted  ; then  turning  toward  the  priest,  still  humbly  stationed  on 
his  knees  at  the  bedside,  he  observed, 

“ I am  not  yet  dead,  sir  ! Should  I recover  (as  I have  every’  hope 
of  doing),  present  the  compliments  of  the  Count  de  Charney  to  his 
trio  of  doctors,  and  tell  them  I dispense  with  their  further  visits,  and 
the  blunders  of  a science  as  idle  and  deceitful  as  all  the  rest.  I over- 
heard enough  of  their  consultations  to  know  that  I am  indebted  to 
chance  alone  for  my  recovery.” 

“ Chance  /”  faltered  the  priest  ; “ chance  !”  And  having  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven  in  token  of  compassion,  they  fell  upon  the  fatal 
inscription  on  the  wall : 

“ Chance,  though  blind,  is  the  sole  author  of  the  crea- 
tion.’7 

The  chaplain  paused,  after  perusing  this  frightful  sentiment ; then, 
having  gathered  breath  by  a deep  and  painful  inspiration,  he  added, 
in  a solemn  voice,  the  last  word  inscribed  by  Charney— 

“Perhaps!” 

And  ere  the  startled  count  could  address  him,  he  had  quitted  the 
apartment. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Elated  by  success,  Ludovico  lent  his  ear,  in  a sort  of  idiotic 
ecstasy,  to  every  syllable  uttered  by  the  count.  Not  that  he  com- 
prehended their  meaning — there , luckily,  he  was  safe.  But  his 


PICCIOLA. 


31 


dead  man  was  alive  again  ; had  resumed  liis  power  cf  speaking, 
thinking,  acting— a sufficient  motive  of  exultation  and  emotion  to  the 
delighted  jailer.  ^ 

“ Vim  !”  cried  he  ; “ viva,  evviva — he  is  saved.  All’s  well ! Ghe 
maraviglia  ! Saved  ! — and  thanks  to  whom  ! — to  what  ?” 

And,  waving  in  the  air  his  earthen  vessel,  he  proceeded  to  hug  and 
embrace  it,  saluting  it  with  the  tenderest  diminutives  of  the  Tuscan 
vocabulary. 

“ Thanks  to  what?”  echoed  the  sick  man.  “ Why,  to  your 
friendly  care,  my  good  Ludovico  ! Nevertheless,  should  my  cure  be 
perfected,  you  will  find  those  doctors  yonder  claiming  all  honor  for 
their  prescriptions  ; and  the  priest,  for  his  prayers  !” 

“Neither  they  nor  I have  any  title  to  the  victory,”  cried  Ludo- 
vico, with  still  wilder  gesticulation.  “As  to  the  Signore  Gapellano , 
his  handiwork  may  have  done  something  ; ’tis  hard  to  say.  But  as 
to  the  other— ay,  ay — as  to  the  other  bringer  of  salvation — ” 

“ To  whom  do  you  allude?”  interrupted  Charney,  expecting  that 
the  superstitious  Ludovico  would  attribute  his  recovery  to  the  inter- 
position of  some  favorite  saint.  “ TFAtfhas  deigned  to  become  my  be- 
nign protector  ?” 

“ Say  protectress,  and  you  will  be  nearer  the  mark,”  cried  Ludo- 
vico. 

“ The  Madonna — eh  ?”  demanded  Charney,  with  an  ironical  smile. 

“ Neither  saint  nor  Madonna  !”  replied  the  jailer  stoutly.  “ She 
who  has  preserved  you  from  the  jaws  of  death  and  the  claws  of  Satan 
(for  dying  without  confession  you  were  damned  as  well  as  dead)  is 
no  other  than  my  pretty  little  goddaughter.  ” 

“ Your  goddaughter  ?”  said  the  count,  lending  a more  attentive 
ear  to  his  rhapsodies. 

“ Ay,  eccellenza , my  goddaughter,  Picciola , Picciolina,  Piccioletta. 
Was  not  I the  first  to  baptize  your  favorite  ? Did  I not  give  her  the 
name  of  Picciola?  Have  you  not  often  told  me  so  yourself  ? Ergo, 
the  plant  is  my  goddaughter,  and  I her  godfather— per  Bacco  ! I’m 
growing  proud  of  the  distinction  !” 

“ Picciola!”  exclaimed  Charney,  starting  up,  and  resting  his  elbow 
on  his  pillow,  while  an  expression  of  the  deepest  interest  took  posses- 
sion of  his  countenance.  “ Explain  yourself,  my  good  Ludovico, 
explain  yourself.” 

“ Come,  come,  no  shamming  stupid,  my  dear  lord  !”  said  the 
jailer,  resuming  his  customary  wink  of  the  eye  ; “ as  if  ’twas  the  first 
time  she  had  saved  your  life  !” 

“ The  first  time  !” 

“ Didn’t  you  tell  me  yourself  that  the  herb  was  the  only  specific 
against  the  disorder  to  which  you  were  subject  ? Lucky  job  I hadn’t 
forgotten  it ; for  the  Signora  Picciola  proves  to  have  more  wisdom  in 
one  of  her  leaves  than  the  whole  faculty  of  Montpellier  in  the  nod- 
dles that  fill  its  trencher-caps.  Tr&ndidio,  my  little  goddaughter  is 


PICCIOLA. 


32 

able  to  defeat  regiments  of  doctors  ! ay,  in  full  complements — four 
battalions  and  four  hundred  picked  men  to  each.  Pray,  did  not  your 
three  humbugs  in  black  throw  back  the  coverlid  on  your  nose,  and 
pronounce  you  to  be  a dead  man  ? while  Picciola,  the  stout  hearted 
little  weed  (God  send  her  seed  in  her  harvest  !),  brought  you  round 
in  the  saying  of  a pater  noster  ? ’Tis  a.  recipe  I mean  to  keep  like  the 
apple  of  my  eye  ; and  if  ever  poor  little  Antonio  should  fall  sick  he 
shall  drink  broths  of  the  herb  and  eat  salads  of  it  ; though,  good 
truth,  ’tis  bitter  as  wormwood.  A single  cup  of  the  infusion  and  all 
acted  like  a charm.  Vittoria!  Viva  V illustrissima  Signorina  Pic- 
ciola!” 

Charney  had  not  the  heart  to  resent  these  tumultuous  ecstasies  of 
his  worthy  keeper.  The  idea  of  being  indebted  for  his  life  to  the 
agency  of  the  feeble  favorite,  which  had  embellished  his  days  of 
health,  insensibly  brought  a smile  to  his  still  feverish  lips.  But  a 
vague  apprehension  oppressed  his  feelings. 

“ In  what  way,  my  good  Ludovico,  did  you  manage  to  apply  your 
remedy  ?”  said  he  faintly. 

“Faith,  easily  enough!  A pint  of  scalding  water  poured  upon 
the  leaves”  (Charney  bit  his  lips  with  anxiety),  “in  a close  kettle, 
which,  after  a turn  or  two  over  the  stove,  furnished  the  decoction.” 

“ Great  God  !”  exclaimed  the  count,  falling  back  on  his  pillow 
and  pressing  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  “You  have  then  destroyed 
the  plant  ! I must  not  reproach  you,  Ludovico  ; you  did  it  for  the 
best.  And  yet,  my  poor  Picciola  ! What  will  become  of  me,  now 
I have  lost  my  little  companion  !” 

“ Come,  come  ! compose  yourself  !”  answered  Ludovico,  assum- 
ing the  paternal  tone  of  a father  comforting  his  child  for  the  loss  of  a 
favorite  plaything.  “ Compose  yourself,  and  do  not  expose  your 
limbs  to  cold  by  throwing  off  your  clothes  in  this  way.  Listen  to 
reason  !”  he  continued,  disposing  the  covering  round  the  person  of 
his  patient.  “Was  I to  hesitate  between  the  life  of  a gilly-flower 
and  the  life  of  a man  ? Certainly  not  ! ’Twould  have  been  a sin — 
a murder  !” 

Charney  groaned  heavily. 

“ However,  I hadn’t  the  heart  to  plunge  the  poor  thing  head-fore- 
most into  the  smoking  kettle.  I thought  a loan  might  do  as  well  as 
total  pillage  ; so  with  my  wife's  scissors  I snipped  off  leaves  enough 
for  a strong  infusion  (spaiing  the  buds  ; for  the  jade  has  now  three 
flower-buds  for  her  top-knot),  and  though  her  foliage  is  a little  the 
thinner,  I’ve  a notion  the  plant  will  not  suffer  from  thinning.  Pic- 
ciola will,  perhaps,  be  the  better  for  the  job,  as  well  as  her  master. 
So  now  be  prudent,  eccellenza ! only  be  prudent,  and  all  will  go  by 
clock-work  at  Fenestrella.  ’ ’ 

Charney,  directing  a glance  of  grateful  affection  toward  his  jailer, 
extended  toward  him  a hand  which,  this  time,  Ludovico  felt  himself 
privileged  to  accept ; for  the  eyes  of  the  count  were  moistened  by 


PICCIOLA. 


33 


tears  of  emotion.  But  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  and  angry  with 
his  own  infraction  of  the  rules  he  had  traced  for  his  conduct  toward 
those  committed  to  his  charge,  the  muscles  of  Ludovico’s  dark  face 
contracted,  and  he  resumed  his  harsh,  surly,  every-day  tone. 
Though  still  holding  within  his  own  the  hand  of  his  prisoner,  he 
affected  to  give  a professional  turn  to  his  attitude. 

“ See  !”  cried  he,  “ in  spite  of  my  injunctions  you  still  persist  in 
uncovering  yourself.  Remember,  sir,  I am  responsible  for  your  re- 
covery !” 

And  after  further  remonstrances,  made  in  the  dry  tone  of  office, 
Ludovico  quitted  the  room,  murmuring  to  the  accompaniment  of  his 
rattling  keys  the  burden  of  his  favorite  song  : 

“ I’m  a jailer  by  my  trade  ; 

A better  ne’er  was  made  : 

Easy  ’tis  to  laugh  for  those  that  win,  man  ! 

I’d  rather  turn  the  key 
Than  have  it  turn’d  on  me. 

Better  out  of  doors  than  always  in,  man  1 
With  a lira-lira-la,  driva  din,  man  !” 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

During  the  remainder  of  that  and  the  following  day,  Cliarney  ex- 
hibited the  depression  of  mind  and  body  which  results  from  every 
great  physical  crisis.  But  on  the  third  day  he  resumed  his  powers 
of  thought  and  action  ; and,  if  still  detained  by  weakness  on  his  pil- 
low, the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  he  was  likely  to  resume  his 
former  habits  of  life. 

What  delight  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  his  benefactress  ! 
All  his  thoughts  were  now  turned  toward  Picciola  ! There  seemed 
to  be  something  beyond  the  common  course  of  events  in  the  fact  that 
a seed,  accidentally  shed  within  the  precincts  of  his  prison,  should 
have  germinated  in  order  to  cure  in  the  first  instance  his  moral  dis- 
order— ennui ; and,  in  the  second,  the  perilous  physical  disease  to 
which  he  had  been  about  to  fall  a victim.  He,  whom  the  splendor 
of  wealth  had  failed  to  enliven  ; he,  whom  the  calculations  of  human 
learning  had  failed  to  restore,  had  been  preserved,  first  and  last,  by 
a plant ! Enfeebled  by  illness,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  apply  his 
full  force  of  reasoning  to  the  development  of  the  question  ; and  a 
superstitious  feeling  accordingly  began  to  attach  himself  with  re- 
doubled force  to  the  mysterious  Picciola.  It  was  impossible  to 
ground  upon  a rational  basis  his  sentiments  of  gratitude  toward  a 
non-sentient  being  ; nevertheless  Charney  found  it  impossible  to  re- 
fuse his  affection  in  exchange  for  the  existence  bestowed  upon  him. 
Where  reason  is  paralyzed,  imagination  exercises  her  influence  with 


34 


PICCIOLA. 


out  restraint.  Charney ’s  regard  for  his  benefactress  now  became 
exalted  into  a religious  feeling,  or  rather  into  a blind  superstition. 
Between  him  and  his  favorite  there  existed  a mysterious  sympathy  of 
nature,  like  the  attraction  which  draws  together  certain  inanimate 
substances.  He  even  fancied  himself  under  a charm — a spell  of 
enchantment.  Who  knows  ? Perhaps  the  arrogant  refuter  of  the 
existence  of  a God  is  about  to  fall  into  the  puerilities  of  judicial  as- 
trology. For  in  the  secrecy  of  his  cell,  Charney  does  not  hesitate  to 
apostrophize  Picciola  as  his  star,  his  destiny,  his  talisman  of  light 
and  life  ! 

It  is  a curious  fact  that  scarcely  one  illustrious  man,  remarkable 
for  knowledge  or  genius,  convicted  of  doubt  in  the  agency  of  a Prov- 
idence, but  has  been  in  his  own  person  the  slave  of  superstition  ; 
while  attempting  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  servitude,  submitting  to 
become  threefold  slaves.  In  the  blind  eagerness  of  their  pride  to 
arrogate  to  their  own  merit  the  power  or  glory  they  have  attained, 
those  deep-seated  instincts  of  religion  which  they  have  attempted  to 
stifle  in  their  souls,  thrust  out  of  their  natural  channel,  force  a way 
of  their  own  toward  daylight,  and  acquire  a wild  and  irregular  char- 
acter. The  homage  they  arrest  in  its  course  to  heaven  falls  back 
upon  the  earth.  They  would  fain  judge,  though  they  refuse  to  be- 
lieve ; and  the  genius  whose  horizon  they  have  circumscribed  re- 
quites the  forced  contraction  by  seeing  things  in  part  instead  of  a 
whole,  and  losing  all  power  of  estimating  the  homogeneous  design  of 
the  great  Master  of  all ! They  attach  themselves  to  details  because 
an  isolated  fact  is  within  the  scope  of  their  judgment,  and  do  not  so 
much  as  notice  the  points  of  union  which  connect  it  with  universal 
nature.  For  what  is  the  whole  creation — earth,  air,  water,  the 
winds,  the  waves,  the  stars,  mankind,  the  universe — but  an  infinite 
being,  complete,  premeditated,  varied  into  inscrutable  details,  and 
breathing  and  palpitating  under  the  omnipresent  hand  of  God  ? 

Subdued,  however,  by  the  strength  of  his  pride  and  the  weakness 
of  his  health,  Charney  saw  nothing  to  admire  in  nature  but  his  weed 
—his  plant,  his  Picciola — and,  as  if  to  justify  his  folly  by  analogy, 
dived  into  the  vast  stores  of  his  memory  for  a precedent. 

He  called  to  mind  all  the  miraculous  plants  recorded  from  the 
earliest  times  by  poet  or  historian — the  holly  of  Homer,  the  palm- 
tree  of  Latona,  the  oak  of  Odin ; nay,  even  the  golden  herb 
which  shines  before  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant  peasants  of  Brittany, 
and  the  May-flower,  which  preserves  from  evil  thoughts  the  simple 
shepherdesses  of  La  Brie.  He  recollected  the  sacred  fig-tree  of  the 
Itomans,  the  olive  of  the  Athenians,  the  Teutates  of  the  Celts,  the 
vervain  of  the  Gauls,  the  lotus  of  the  Greeks,  the  beans  of  the 
Pythagoreans,  the  mandrake  of  the  Hebrews.  He  remembered  the 
blue  campac  which  blossoms  everlastingly  in  the  Persian’s  paradise, 
the  trouba-tree  which  overshadows  the  celestial  throne  of  Ma- 
homet, the  magic  camalata,  the  sacred  amreet  on  whose  branches 


PICCIOLA. 


35 


the  Indians  behold  imaginary  fruits  of  ambrosia  and  of  voluptuous 
enjoyment.  He  recurred  with  pleasure  to  the  symbolical  worship 
of  the  Japanese,  who  elevate  the  altars  of  their  divinities  on  pedestals 
of  heliotropes  and  water-lilies,  assigning  the  throne  of  Love  himself 
to  the  corolla  of  a nenuphar.  He  admired  the  religious  scruples  of 
the  Siamese,  which  make  it  sacrilege  to  exterminate  or  even  mutilate 
certain  consecrated  shrubs.  A thousand  superstitions  which  in 
former  times  excited  his  pity  and  contempt  toward  the  short-sighted- 
ness of  human  nature,  tended  now  to  elevate  his  fellow-creatures  in 
his  estimation.  For  the  count  had  discovered  that  from  the  vegeta- 
tion of  a humble  flower  may  emanate  lessons  of  wisdom,  and 
doubted  not  that  all  these  idolatrous  customs  must  have  originated  in 
sentiments  of  gratitude  unexplained  by  tradition. 

* 4 From  his  imperial  throne  of  the  west,”  thought  Charney, 
44  Charlemagne  did  not  disdain  to  exhort  the  nation  submitted  to  his 
rule,  to  the  culture  of  flowers.  And  have  not  HHian  and  Herodotus 
recorded  that  the  great  Xerxes  himself  took  such  delight  in  the 
beauty  of  an  Oriental  plane-tree  as  to  caress  its  stem,  press  it  ten- 
derly in  his  arms,  sleep  enraptured  under  its  shade,  decorating  it 
with  bracelets  and  chains  of  gold  when  compelled  to  bid  adieu  to  his 
verdant  favorite  ?” 

As  the  convalescence  of  the  count  proceeded,  he  was  seated  one 
morning  reclining,  absorbed  in  thought,  in  his  own  chamber,  of 
which  he  had  not  yet  ventured  to  cross  the  threshold,  when  his  door 
was  suddenly  burst  open,  and  Ludovico,  with  a radiant  countenance, 
hastened  toward  him. 

“ Yittoria  !”  cried  he.  44  The  creature  is  in  bloom.  Picciola ! 
Piccioletta  ! figlioccia  mia  ! ’ ’ 

“In  bloom?”  cried  Charney,  starting  up.  44  Let  me  see  her — I 
must  see  the  blossom.” 

In  vain  did  the  worthy  jailer  represent  the  imprudence  of  going 
too  soon  into  the  air,  and  implore  the  count  to  delay  the  undertaking 
for  a day  or  two.  The  morning  was  uncertain,  the  atmosphere 
chilly.  A relapse  might  bring  the  invalid  once  more  to  the  gates  of 
death.  But  Charney  was  deaf  to  all  remonstrance  ! He  consented 
only  to  wait  an  hour,  in  order  that  the  sun  might  become  one  of  the 
party. 

44  Picciola  is  in  bloom  !”  repeated  Charney  to  himself.  And  how 
long,  how  tedious  did  that  hour  appear,  which  was  still  to  divide 
him  from  the  darling  of  his  imagination  ! For  the  first  time  since  his 
illness  he  judged  it  necessary  to  dress.  He  chose  to  dedicate  his 
first  toilet  to  Picciola  in  bloom.  He  actually  looked  into  his  pocket- 
glass  while  he  arranged  his  hair  to  do  honor  to  his  visit  to  a flower  ! 
A flower?  Nay  ! surely  something  more?  His  visit  is  that  of  the 
convalescent  to  his  physician,  of  the  grateful  man  to  his  benefac- 
tress, almost  of  the  lover  to  his  mistress  ! He  was  surprised  to  no- 
tice in  the  glass  the  ravages  which  care  and  sickness  had  wrought  ir\ 


36 


PICCIOLA. 


his  appearance.  He  began  to  suspect,  for  the  first  time,  that  bitter 
and  venomous  thoughts  may  tend  to  canker  the  human  frame  ; and 
milder  contemplations  produced  a more  auspicious  temperament. 

At  the  appointed  moment  Ludovico  reappeared,  to  offer  to  the  Count 
de  Charney  the  support  of  his  arm  down  the  steep  steps  of  the  wind- 
ing stone  staircase  ; and  scarcely  had  the  sick  man  emerged  into  the 
court  when  the  emotion  caused  by  a sudden  restoration  to  light  and 
air,  operating  on  the  sensitiveness  of  an  easily  excitable  nervous  sys- 
tem, produced  a conviction  on  his  mind  that  the  whole  atmosphere 
was  vivified  and  embalmed  by  the  emanations  of  his  flower.  It  was 
to  Picciola  he  attributed  the  delightful  emotions  which  agitated  his 
bosom. 

The  enchantress  had,  indeed,  attired  herself  in  all  her  charms  ! 
The  coquette  was  shining  in  all  her  beauty.  Her  brilliant  and  deli- 
cately streaked  corolla,  in  which  crimson,  pink,  and  white  were 
blended  by  imperceptible  gradations,  her  large  transparent  petals 
bordered  by  a little  silvery  fringe  or  ciliation,  which  the  scattered 
rays  of  the  sun  seemed  to  brighten  into  a halo  encircling  the  flower, 
exceeded  the  utmost  anticipations  of  the  count,  as  he  stood  gazing 
with  transport  upon  his  queen  ! He  feared,  indeed,  to  tarnish  the 
delicacy  of  the  blossom  by  the  contact  of  his  hand  or  breath.  Analy- 
sis or  investigation  seemed  out  of  the  question,  engrossed  as  he  was 
by  love  and  admiration  for  the  delicate  thing  whose  fragrance  and 
beauty  breathed  enchantment  upon  every  sense  ! 

But  he  was  soon  startled  from  his  reveries  ! The  count  noticed,  for 
the  first  time,  traces  of  the  mutilation  by  which  he  had  been  restored 
to  health — branches  half  cut  away,  and  fading  leaves  still  wounded 
by  contact  with  the  scissors  of  Ludovico.  Tears  started  into  his 
eyes  ! Instead  of  admiration  for  the  delicate  lines  and  perfumes  of 
those  expanding  blossoms,  he  experienced  only  gratitude  for  the  gift 
of  life  ! He  beheld  a benefactress  in  his  Picciola. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  physician  of  the  prison  condescended  to  authorize,  on  the 
morrow,  the  Count  de  Charney’s  resumption  of  his  daily  exercise. 
He  was  allowed  the  freedom  of  the  little  court,  not  only  at  the  usual 
hours,  but  at  any  moment  of  the  day.  Air  and  exercise  were  con- 
sidered indispensable  to  his  recovery  ; and  thus  the  prisoner  was 
enabled  to  apply  himself  anew  to  his  long-interrupted  studies.. 

In  the  view  of  committing  to  writing  his  scientific  observations  on 
the  development  of  his  plant  from  the  moment  of  its  germination, 
he  tried  to  seduce  Ludovico  into  furnishing  him  with  pens  and 
paper.  He  expected,  indeed,  to  find  the  jailer  resume  on  this  occa- 


PICCIOLA. 


37 


sion  an  air  of  importance,  and  raise  a thousand  difficulties,  but  proba- 
bly yield  in  the  sequel,  out  of  love  for  his  captive,  or  his  goddaugh- 
ter, or  worldly  pelf  ; for  where  perquisites  were  concerned,  turnkey - 
nature  was  still  uppermost.  But  to  Cliarney’s  great  surprise,  Ludo- 
vico received  his  propositions  with  the  most  frank  good-humor. 

“ Pens  and  ink  ; nothing  more  easy,  Signor  Conte  /”  said  he,  tap- 
ping his  pipe  and  turning  aside  his  head  to  keep  it  alive  by  a whiff 
or  two  ; for  he  made  it  a point  to  abstain  from  smoking  in  presence 
of  the  count,  to  whom  the  smell  of  tobacco  was  disagreeable.  “ I, 
for  my  part,  have  no  objection.  But,  you  see,  such  little  tools  as 
pens  and  paper  remain  under  the  lock  and  key  of  the  governor,  not 
under  mine  ; and  if  you  want  writing  materials,  you  have  only  to 
memorialize  the  captain-commandant,  and  your  business  is  done  !” 

Charney  smiled,  and  persevered. 

“But  in  order  to  frame  my  petition,  good  Ludovico,  ” said  he, 
“ pens,  ink,  and  paper  are,  in  the  first  instance,  indispensable.” 

“ True,  eccellenza , true,!  But  we  must  drag  back  the  donkey  by 
the  tail  to  make  it  get  on — no  uncommon  method  with  petitions,  ” 
quoth  the  jailer,  half  aside,  crossing  his  arms  consequentially  behind 
him.  “ I must  go  straight  to  the  governor  and  tell  him  you  have  a 
request  to  make,  no  matter  about  what.  That  is  not  my  business, 
but  his  and  yours.  If  inconvenient  to  him  to  visit  you  in  person, 
he’ll  send  his  man  of  business,  who  will  furnish  you  with  a pen  and 
a sheet  of  stamped  paper,  just  one  sheet,  ruled  in  form  for  a petition, 
on  which  you  must  inscribe  your  memorial  in  his  presence  ; after 
which  he  places  his  seal  on  it  in  yours  ; you  return  the  pen  to  him, 
he  makes  you  a bow,  and  away  he  goes  with  the  petition  !” 

“ But  it  is  not  from  the  governor  I ask  for  paper,  Ludovico,  ’tis 
from  yourself.” 

“From  me?  You  don’t  happen  then  to  know  my  orders  ?”  re- 
plied the  jailer,  resuming  his  accustomed  severity.  Then  drawing  a 
deep  breath  of  his  pipe,  he  exhaled  the  smoke  with  much  delibera- 
tion, eying  the  count  askance  during  the  process,  turned  on  his  heel, 
and  quitted  the  room. 

Next  day,  when  Charney  returned  to  the  charge,  Ludovico  con- 
tented himself  with  winking  his  eye,  shaking  his  head,  and  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  Not  a word  now  was  to  be  extracted  from  him. 

Too  proud  to  humiliate  himself  to  the  governor,  but  still  bent  upon 
his  project,  Charney  now  set  to  work  to  make  a pen  for  himself  out 
of  a crow-quill  toothpick.  With  some  soot  carefully  dissolved  in 
one  of  the  golden  cups  of  his  dressing-case  he  furnished  himself 
with  ink  and  inkstand  ; while  his  cambric  handkerchiefs,  relics  of 
former  splendor,  were  made  to  serve  for  writing-paper.  With  these 
awkward  materials  he  resolved  to  record  the  peculiarities  of  Picciola, 
occupying  himself,  even  when  absent  from  liis  favorite,  with  details 
of  her  life  and  history. 

What  profound  remarks  already  presented  themselves  for  inscrip- 


38 


PICCIOLA, 


tion  ! What  pleasure  would  Charney  have  found  in  communicating 
his  observations  to  any  intelligent  human  being  ! His  neighbor,  the 
fly-catcher,  might  have  been  a satisfactory  auditor  ; for  Charney  had 
now  found  occasion  to  admire  the  bland  and  benevolent  expression 
of  a countenance  at  first  sight  commonplace.  Whenever  the  old 
man  stood  contemplating  from  his  little  window,  with  an  inquiring 
and  propitious  eye,  the  beauty  of  Picciola  and  the  attentions  of  her 
votary,  the  count  felt  irresistibly  attracted  toward  his  fellow-pris- 
oner. Nay,  smiles  and  salutations  with  the  hand  had  been  ex- 
changed between  them  ; and  it  was  only  the  rigid  interdiction  of  all 
intercourse  between  prisoners  at  Fenestrella  which  prevented  mu- 
tual inquiries  after  each  other’s  health  and  pursuits.  The  solitary 
explorers  into  the  mysteries  of  nature  were  therefore  compelled  to 
keep  to  themselves  their  grand  discoveries  in  botany  and  entomology. 

First  among  those  by  which  Charney  was  interested  after  the 
flowering  of  his  plant,  was  the  faculty  exhibited  by  Picciola  of  turn- 
ing her  sweet  face  toward  the  sun,  and  following  him  with  her 
looks  throughout  his  daily  course,  as  if  to  imbibe  the  greatest  possi- 
ble portion  of  his  vivifying  rays.  When  clouds  obscured  the  orb  of 
day,  or  there  was  a prospect  of  rain,  her  petals  instantly  closed,  like 
a vessel  furling  its  canvas  before  a storm.  “ Are  light  and  heat  so 
necessary,  then,  to  her  existence?”  mused  the  count;  ‘‘and  why 
should  she  fear  to  refresh  herself  with  a sprinkling  shower  ? Why  ? 
wThy  ? Picciola  will  explain  ! I have  perfect  confidence  in  Pic- 
ciola !” 

Already  his  darling  had  fulfilled  toward  him  the  functions  of  a 
physician.  She  was  now  about  to  become  his  compass  and  barome- 
ter, perhaps  even  his  timepiece  ; for  by  dint  of  constantly  inhaling 
her  fragrance  Charney  found  he  could  discover  that  her  perfumes 
varied  in  power  and  quality  at  different  times  of  the  day.  At  first 
these  phenomena  seemed  an  illusion  ; but  reiterated  experiments  con- 
vinced him  that  he  was  not  mistaken  ; and  he  was  soon  able  to  des- 
ignate to  a certainty  the  hour  of  the  day  according  to  the  varying 
odor  of  the  flower.* 

Innumerable  blossoms  already  studded  his  beautiful  plant  : toward 
evening  their  exhalations  were  as  delicious  as  they  were  potent,  and 
at  that  moment  what  a relief  to  the  weary  captive  to  draw  near  to 
his  favorite  ! He  now  constructed  a rude  bench  with  some  planks 
derived  from  the  munificence  of  Ludovico,  and  pointed  a few  logs 
which  he  contrived  to  insert  into  the  interstices  of  the  pavement.  A 
rough  plank,  nailed  transversely,  afforded  him  a leaning-place,  as  he 
sat  for  hours  musing  and  meditating  in  the  fragrant  atmosphere  of 
his  plant.  He  was  happier  there  than  he  had  ever  felt  on  his  silken 
ottomans  of  former  days  ; and  hour  after  hour  would  he  sit  reflecting 


* Sir  James  Smith  notices  this  property  in  the  Antirrhinum  repens.  “Flora 
Britannica,”  vol.  ii.  p.  658. 


PICCIOLA. 


39 


on  his  wasted  youth,  which  had  elapsed  without  the  attainment  of  a 
single  real  pleasure  or  genuine  affection  ; withering  away  in  the  midst 
of  vain  chimeras  and  premature  satiety. 

Often,  after  such  retrospections,  Cliarney  found  himself  gradually 
soothed  into  reveries  between  sleep  and  waking  ; his  senses  subdued 
into  a sort  of  apathetic  torpor,  his  imagination  excited  to  a visionary 
ecstasy,  perplexing  the  desolate  count  with  scenes  of  days  past  and 
days  to  come. 

He  sometimes  fancied  himself  in  the  midst  of  those  brilliant  fetes, 
where,  though  himself  the  victim  of  ennui,  he  used  to  lavish  upon 
others  all  the  pleasures  and  luxuries  of  life.  He  seemed  to  stand 
gazing,  some  night  of  the  Carnival,  beside  the  illuminated  fa£ade  of  his 
hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Yerneuil,  the  rolling  of  a thousand  carriages 
vibrating  in  his  ear.  One  by  one  they  entered  by  torchlight  his  cir- 
cular courtyard,  depositing  successively  in  the  vestibule,  covered 
with  rich  carpets  and  protected  by  silken  hangings,  the  fashionable 
belles  of  the  day,  enveloped  in  costly  furs,  under  which  was  audible 
the  rustling  of  satin  or  brocade  ; the  beaux  of  the  imperial  court, 
with  their  high-crowned  hats,  cravats  up  to  their  ears,  and  redundant 
knee-strings  ; artists  of  eminence,  with  naked  throats,  Brutus-heads, 
and  a costume  half  French,  half  Greek  ; and  men  of  science  or  let- 
ters, wearing  the  distinctive  academic  collar  of  green.  A crowd  of 
lackeys  clustered  on  all  sides,  insolently  defying,  under  their  new 
liveries,  the  absolute  decrees  of  the  once  puissant  conventional  repub- 
lic of  France. 

The  fancy  of  Charney  next  ascended  to  the  crowded  salons  in 
which  were  assembled  all  that  was  illustrious  or  notorious  of  the  cap- 
ital. The  toga  and  cldamyda  were  jumbled  together  with  jackets  or 
frock-coats.  High-heeled  shoes  with  rosettes  trod  the  same  floor 
as  jockey-boots  with  spur  on  heel,  nay,  even  with  the  caligia  and 
cothurnus.  Men  of  the  law,  the  pen,  the  sword,  moneyed  men  and 
moneyless,  artists  and  ministers  of  state,  all  were  confounded  in  this 
olla  podrida  of  the  Directory.  An  actor  stood  hand  in  glove  with  an 
ex-bishop,  a ci-devant  peer  with  a ci-devant  pauper  ; aristocracy  and 
democracy  were  united  like  twin-brothers  ; wealthy  ignorance  pa- 
raded itself  arm  in  arm  with  starving  erudition.  Such  was  the  regen- 
eration of  society,  rallying  round  a common  centre  in  masses,  of 
which  each  felt  itself  still  too  feeble  to  stand  alone.  The  marshalline: 
of  the  crowd  was  deferred  to  some  more  convenient  season  ! tnere 
would  be  a time  for  that  hereafter  ! Such  is  the  system  of  a play- 
ground, where  all  classes  of  a school  mingle  together  under  the  im- 
pulse of  a common  thirst  after  amusement.  As  the  boys  grow  older 
the  powerful  influence  of  the  spirit  of  social  order  insensibly  estran- 
ges them  from  unbecoming  companions,  and  high  and  low  mechan- 
ically range  themselves  under  their  appointed  banners. 

With  a silent  smile  did  Charney  contemplate  this  phantasmagoric 
display  of  piebald  civilization.  That  which  had  once  excited  the  bit- 
M.  C.-ll 


40 


PJCCIOLA. 


ter  sneers  of  the  man  of  the  world  now  served  to  divert  him,  as  the 
memento  of  the  wasted  years  spent  by  his  native  country  in  shallow 
theoretic  experiments,  exposing  it  to  the  contempt  of  Europe. 

At  times  brilliant  orchestras  appeared  to  strike  into  animating  and 
joyous  measures  ; and  lo  ! the  opening  of  the  ball  ! Charney  fancied 
he  could  recognize  the  favorite  airs  of  former  days,  but  more  impress- 
ive than  at  their  first  hearing.  The  glittering  radiance  of  the  lus- 
tres, their  prismatic  reflections  in  the  numerous  mirrors,  the  soft  and 
perfumed  atmosphere  of  a ball-room,  the  aroma  of  a banquet,  the 
mirth  of  the  guests,  the  wild  hilarity  of  the  waltzers,  who  rustled 
against  [him  in  the  mazy  round,  the  light  and  frivolous  topics  which 
excited  their  merriment — all  tended  to  stimulate  him  to  a degree  of 
joyousness  such  as  the  reality  of  the  dream  had  never  succeeded  in 
producing. 

Women,  too — ivory-sliouldered,  slender-waisted,  swan-throated — 
women,  arrayed  in  sumptuous  brocades,  gauzes  striped  with  gold, 
and  gems  of  sparkling  lustre,  thronged  around  him,  smiling  as  they 
returned  his  salutations.  One  by  one  he  recognized  those  lovely  be- 
ings—the  grace  and  ornaments  of  his  entertainments  when,  opulent 
and  free,  the  Count  de  Charney  was  cited  as  one  of  the  favored  ones 
of  the  earth.  There  figured,  unrivalled,  the  majestic  Tallien,  arrayed 
in  the  classic  tunic  of  Greece,  and  covered  with  gems  and  costly  rings, 
even  to  the  toes  of  a foot  from  which  might  have  been  modelled  that 
of  some  Venus  of  antiquity,  naked  but  for  the  slight  concealment  of 
a golden  sandal ; the  fair  Recamier,  to  whom  Athens  would  have 
erected  altars  ; and  Josephine,  ci-devant  Countess  of  Beauharnois, 
who,  by  dint  of  grace  and  affability,  often  passed  for  the  fairest  of 
these  three  graces  of  the  consulate.  But  even  by  the  side  of  these,  a 
hundred  lovely  women  distinguished  themselves  by  their  beauty  or 
their  elegance  ; and  how  exquisite  did  they  now  appear  in  the 
dreaming  eyes  of  Charney  ! How  much  fairer,  how  much  softer, 
than  when  they  courted  his  smiles  ! How  gladly  had  he  now  com- 
manded liberty  of  choice  among  so  many  consummate  enchant- 
resses ! 

Sometimes,  in  the  wildness  of  his  reveries,  he  did  venture  on  selec- 
tion ! — from  the  brilliant  crowd  he  singled  out  one — undistinguished, 
however,  by  the  lustre  of  ivory  shoulders  or  a tiara  of  diamonds. 
Simple  in  attire  as  in  deportment,  his  beauty  lingered  behind  the 
rest,  with  downcast  eyes  and  cheeks  suffused  with  blushes — a girl,  a 
young  girl,  arrayed  in  simple  white,  and  the  no  less  spotless  array  of 
perfect  innocence.  She  had  never  shone  in  his  galas  of  other  times, 
though  now  she  stood  out  prominent  on  the  canvas,  while  all  the  oth- 
ers vanished  into  shade.  At  last  she  seemed  alone,  and  Charney  be- 
gan to  reconsider  her,  charm  by  charm,  feature  by  feature.  His 
feelings  were  gently  agitated  by  the  lovely  vision.  But  how  much 
more  when,  on  raising  his  eyes  to  the  dark  braids  of  her  raven  hair, 
be  beheld  a flower  blooming  there,  his  flower  of  Picciola  ! Involun- 


PICCIOLA. 


41 


tarily  he  extended  his  arms  toward  the  beauteous  apparition,  when 
lo  ! all  grew  confused  and  misty  ; and  the  distant  music  of  the  orches- 
tra became  once  more  audible  as  the  fair  maiden  and  fair  flower  ap- 
peared to  melt  into  each  other.  The  fragrant  corolla,  expanding, 
inclosed  with  its  delicate  petals  the  loveliest  of  human  faces,  till  all 
was  hidden  from  his  view.  Instead  of  the  gorgeous  hangings  and 
gilded  walls  of  the  ball-room,  a hovering  exhalation  presented  itself 
to  the  eyes  of  the  count.  The  lustres  gradually  extinguished,  van- 
ished in  the  distance,  emitting  a feeble  arch  of  light  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  gathering  clouds.  Rude  pavement  replaced  the  smooth  and 
lustrous  floor,  stern  Reason  reappeared  to  take  possession  of  her 
throne,  and  the  gracious  illusions  of  Fancy  expired  at  her  approach. 
A touch  of  the  fatal  wand  of  Truth  dispelled  at  once  the  dream  of 
the  captive  ! 

Charney  woke  to  find  himself  musing  on  his  rustic  bench,  his  feet 
resting  on  the  stones  of  the  courtyard,  and  the  daylight  fading  over 
his  head.  But  Picciola — thanks  be  to  heaven,  Picciola  is  still  before 
him  ! 

The  first  time  the  count  became  conscious  of  this  species  of  ver- 
tigo, he  noticed  that  it  was  only  when  meditating  within  the  atmos- 
phere of  his  plant  that  such  gentle  visions  descended  upon  his  mind. 
He  recollected  that  the  emanations  of  certain  flowers  are  of  so  intox- 
icating  a nature  as  even  to  produce  asphyxia.  It  was  therefore  un- 
der the  influence  of  his  favorite  that  these  delicious  dreams  visited 
his  imagination  ; and  for  his  fete,  his  houris,  his  banquets,  his 
music,  he  was  still  indebted  to  Picciola. 

But  the  fair  girl — the  modest,  gentle  girl  by  whose  image  he  had 
been  so  powerfully  impressed — from  whence  has  he  derived  her  im- 
age ? Did  he  ever  behold  her  among  the  haunts  of  men  ? Is  she, 
like  the  other  divinities  of  his  dream,  the  creature  of  reminiscence  ? 
Memory  had  nothing  to  reply  ! The  past  afforded  no  prototype  for 
her  charms  ! But  the  future  ? If  the  vision  his  fancy  had  created 
should  be  the  creature  of  anticipation,  of  presentiment  rather  than  of 
recollection  ? — alas  ! of  what  avail  anticipations — of  what  avail  reve- 
lations of  the  future  to  the  unfortunate  Charney  ! In  a sentence  of 
imprisonment  for  life,  the  destinies  of  the  captive  are  accom- 
plished ! 

All  human  hope,  therefore,  must  be  laid  aside.  The  young  girl  of 
blooming  blushes  and  draperies  of  virgin  white  shall  be  the  Picciola 
of  his  imagination  ; Picciola  in  the  poetical  personification  of  a 
dream— his  idol,  his  love,  his  bride  ! The  sweet  countenance  and 
graceful  form  revealed  to  him  shall  image  forth  the  guardian  spirit 
of  his  plant  ; with  that  his  reveries  shall  be  brightened,  and  the  ach- 
ing void  in  his  heart  and  soul  filled  up  forever  ! She  shall  dwell 
with  him,  muse  with  him,  sit  by  his  side,  accompany  his  lonely 
walks,  reply  to  him,  smile  upon  him,  enchant  him  with  her  ethereal 
love  ! She  shall  share  his  existence,  his  breath,  his  heart,  his  soul. 


42 


PICCIOLA. 


He  will  converse  with  her  in  thought,  and  close  his  eyes  to  gaze 
upon  her  beauty  ! They  shall  form  but  one,  in  order  that  he  may 
be  alone  no  longer  ! 

These  emotions  superseded  the  graver  studies  of  the  prisoner  of 
Fenestrella,  the  enjoyments  of  the  heart  succeeding  to  those  of  the 
mind.  Charney  now  gave  himself  up  to  all  that  poetry  of  existence 
from  whose  sphere  the  soul  returns  laden  with  perfumes,  as  the  bee, 
after  extracting  from  the  breast  of  the  flower  a harvest  of  honey. 
There  was  a life  of  daily  hardship  and  captivity  to  be  endured  ; 
there  was  a life  of  love  and  ecstasy  to  be  enjoyed,  and  united,  though 
apart,  they  completed  the  measure  of  existence  of  the  once  envied 
but  most  unhappy  Count  de  Charney.  His  time  was  shared  between 
Picciola,  his  mortal  flower,  and  Picciola,  his  immortal  love  ; to  rea* 
son,  or  rather  reasoning,  succeeded  happiness  and  lore  ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

Induced  at  length  to  renew  his  experimental  inquiries  into  the  pro- 
cess of  inflorescence,  Charney  became  enchanted  by  the  prodigious 
and  immutable  congruities  of  nature.  For  some  time,  indeed,  his 
eyes  were  baffled  by  the  infinite  minuteness  of  the  phenomena  to  which 
his  attention  was  directed  ; when,  just  as  his  patience  became  ex- 
hausted by  his  own  incapacity,  Ludovico  conveyed  to  him  from  his 
neighbor  the  fly-catcher  a microscopic  lens  with  which  Girardi  had 
been  enabled  to  number  eight  thousand  oculary  facets  on  the  cornea 
of  a fly’s  eye. 

Charney  was  transported  with  joy  at  the  acquisition  ! The  most 
occult  portion  of  the  flower  now  became  manifested  for  his  investiga- 
tion ; and  already  he  fancied  himself  advancing  with  gigantic  strides 
in  the  path  of  science.  Having  carefully  analyzed  the  texture  of  his 
flower,  he  convinced  himself  that  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  petal, 
their  form,  their  crimson  spots,  the  bands  of  velvet  or  satin  which 
adorn  their  bases  or  fringe  their  extremities,  are  not  intended  for  the 
mere  gratification  of  the  eye,  but  for  the  purpose  of  reflecting,  at- 
tracting, or  modifying  the  rays  of  the  sun,  according  to  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  flower  during  the  grand  process  of  fructification.  The 
polished  crowns  or  studs  of  the  calyx,  lustrous  like  porcelain,  are 
doubtless  glandular  masses  for  the  absorption  of  the  air,  light,  and 
moisture,  indispensable  to  the  formation  of  the  seed  ; for  without 
light,  no  color ; without  air  and  moisture,  no  vitality.  Moisture, 
light,  and  heat  are  the  elements  of  vegetable  light,  which  on  its  ex- 
tinction it  bequeaths  in  restitution  to  the  universe. 

Unknown  to  Charney,  his  reveries  and  studies  had  attracted  two 
deeply- interested  spectators — Girardi  and  his  daughter.  The  latter, 


PICCIOLA. 


43 


educated  in  habits  of  piety  and  seclusion  by  a father  imbued  with 
reverential  religious  sentiments,  was  blessed  with  one  of  those  ethe- 
real natures  in  which  every  good  and  holy  interest  seems  united. 
The  beauty  and  excellence  of  Teresa  Girardi,  the  graces  of  her  per- 
son and  mind,  had  not  failed  to  attract  admirers  ; and  her  deep  and 
expansi  ve  sensibility  seemed  to  announce  a predisposition  for  hum  an 
affections.  But  if  a vague  preference  had  occasionally  influenced 
her  feelings  amid  the  fetes  of  Turin,  every  impulse  of  her  gentle 
heart  was  now  concentrated  into  grief  for  the  captivity  of  her  father. 

Her  soul  was  humbled,  her  spirits  subdued.  Two  only  objects 
predominated  in  her  heart — her  father  in  prison,  her  Saviour  on  the 
cross  ; despair  on  earth,  but  trust  in  immortality.  Not  that  the  fair 
daughter  of  Italy  was  of  a melancholy  mind.  Her  duties  were  easy 
to  her,  her  sacrifices  a delight ; and  where  tears  were  to  be  dried  or 
smiles  awaked,  there  was  the  place  of  Teresa  : hitherto,  she  had  accom- 
plished this  task  toward  her  father  only  ; but  from  the  moment  of 
beholding  Charney,  his  air  of  depression  excited  a twofold  compas- 
sion in  her  bosom.  A captive  like  her  father,  and  with  her  father,  a 
mysterious  analogy  seemed  to  unite  their  destinies.  But  the  count 
is  even  more  deserving  pity  than  her  father.  The  count  has 
no  earthly  solace  remaining  but  a poor  plant ; and  with  what 
tenderness  does  he  cultivate  this  last  remaining  affection  ! The  noble 
countenance  and  fine  person  of  the  prisoner  might,  perhaps,  unsus- 
pected by  Teresa,  tend  to  enhance  her  compassion  ; but  had  she  be- 
come acquainted  with  him  in  his  days  of  splendor,  when  surrounded 
by  the  deceitful  attributes  of  happiness,  these  would  never  have 
sufficed  to  distinguish  him  in  her  eyes.  His  isolation,  his  abandon- 
ment, his  calamity,  his  resignation,  have  alone  attracted  her  inter- 
est and  prompted  the  gift  of  her  tenderness  and  esteem.  In  her 
ignorance  of  men  and  things,  Teresa  is  induced  to  include  misfor- 
tune in  her  catalogue  of  virtues. 

As  bold  in  pursuance  of  a good  action  as  timid  in  personal  deport- 
ment, she  often  directed  toward  Charney  the  good  offices  of  her 
father  ; and  one  day,  when  Girardi  advanced  to  the  window,  instead 
of  contenting  himself,  as  usual,  with  a salutation  of  the  hand,  he  mo- 
tioned to  the  count  to  draw  as  near  as  possible  to  the  window  ; and, 
having  moderated  his  voice  to  the  lowest  pitch,  whispered, 

“ I have  good  news  for  you.” 

“ And  I my  thanks  to  return,”  replied  Charney,  “ for  the  micro- 
scope you  have  been  kind  enough  to  send  me.” 

“It  is  rather  to  my  daughter  your  thanks  are  due,”  replied 
Girardi.  “ It  was  Teresa  who  suggested  the  offer.” 

“You  have  a daughter  : and  are  you  allowed  the  happiness  of  see- 
ing her  ?”  demanded  the  count,  with  interest. 

“Iam,  indeed,  so  fortunate,”  replied  the  old  man  ; “ and  return 
daily  thanks  to  Heaven  for  having  bestowed  on  me  an  angel  in  my 
child.  During  your  illness,  sir,  none  were  more  deeply  interested  in 


44 


PICCIOLA. 


your  welfare  than  my  Teresa.  Have  you  never  noticed  her  at  the 
grating,  watching  the  care  you  devote  to  your  flower  ?” 

“ I have  some  idea  that — ” 

“ But,  in  talking  of  my  girl,”  interrupted  the  old  man,  “ I neglect 
to  acquaint  you  with  important  news.  The  emperor  is  on  his  way  to 
Milan  for  his  coronation  as  king  of  Italy.” 

“King  of  Italy!”  reiterated  Charney.  “Doubtless,  then,  alas! 
to  be  our  master.  As  to  the  microscope,”  continued  the  count,  who 
cared  less  for  king  or  kaiser  than  for  his  ruling  passion,  “ I have  de- 
tained it  too  long  ; you  may  be  in  want  of  it.  Yet  as  my  experi- 
ments are  still  incomplete,  perhaps  you  will  permit — ” 

“Keep  it,”  interrupted  the  fly-catcher,  with  a beneficent  smile, 
perceiving,  by  the  intonation  of  Charney’s  voice,  with  what  regret 
he  was  about  to  resign  the  solace  of  his  solitude  ; “ keep  it  in  remem- 
brance of  a companion  in  misfortune,  who  entertains  a lively  interest 
in  your  welfare.” 

Charney  would  have  expressed  his  gratitude,  but  his  generous 
friend  refused  all  thanks.  ‘ ‘ Let  me  finish  what  I have  to  communi- 
cate ere  we  are  interrupted,”  said  he.  Then,  lowering  his  voice 
again,  he  added,  “It  is  rumored  that  a certain  number  of  prisoners 
will  be  released,  and  criminals  pardoned,  in  honor  of  the  coronation. 
Have  you  friends,  sir,  in  Turin  or  Milan  ? Are  there  any  to  inter- 
cede for  you  ?” 

The  count  replied  by  a mournful  negative  movement  of  the  head. 
“ I have  not  a friend  in  the  world  !”  was  his  reply. 

“ Not  a friend  !”  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  a look  of  profound 
pity.  “ Have  you,  then,  exhibited  mistrust  of  your  fellow-creatures  ? 
— for  friendship  is  unpropitious  only  to  those  who  withhold  their 
faith.  I,  Heaven  be  thanked,  have  friends  in  abundance — good  and 
faithful  friends — who  might,  perhaps,  be  more  successful  in  your  be- 
half than  they  have  been  in  mine.” 

“ I have  nothing  to  ask  of  General  Bonaparte,”  said  Charney,  in  a 
harsh  tone,  characteristic  of  all  his  former  animosities. 

‘ ‘ Hush  ! speak  lower  ! I hear  footsteps  ! ’ ’ said  Girardi. 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  after  which  the  Italian  re- 
sumed, in  a tone  which  softened,  by  almost  paternal  tenderness,  the 
rebuke  which  it  conveyed. 

“ Your  feelings  are  still  embittered,  my  dear  companion  in  adver- 
sity. Surely  your  study  of  the  works  of  nature  ought  to  have  sub- 
dued a hatred  which  is  opposed  to  all  the  commandments  of  God 
and  all  the  chances  of  human  happiness  ? Has  not  the  fragrance  of 
your  flower  poured  balm  into  your  wounds  ? The  Bonaparte,  of 
whom  you  speak  so  vindictively,  surely  I have  more  cause  to  hate 
him  than  yourself.  My  only  son  perished  under  his  banner  of 
usurpation.” 

“ True  ! And  did  you  not  seek  to  avenge  his  death  ?” 

“ The  false  rumor,  then,  has  reached  you,”  said  the  old  man,  rais- 


PICCIOLA. 


45 


ing  his  head  with  dignity  toward  heaven,  as  if  in  appeal  to  the  testi- 
mony of  the  Almighty.  “/ revenge  myself  by  a deed  of  blood  ! No, 
sir  ! no  ! My  utmost  crime  consisted  in  the  despair  which  prompted 
me,  when  all  Turin  saluted  the  victor  with  acclamations,  to  oppose 
to  them  the  cries  of  my  parental  anguish.  1 was  arrested  on  the 
spot ; a knife  was  found  on  my  person,  and  I was  branded  with  the 
name  of  assassin — 1,  an  agonized  father,  who  had  just  learned  the 
loss  of  an  only  son.” 

“ Infamous  injustice  ! infamous  tyranny  !”  cried  the  count,  with 
indignation. 

“ Nay,”  remonstrated  Girardi,  “ I thank  Heaven  I am  able  to  per- 
ceive that  Bonaparte  may  have  been  deceived  by  appearances.  His 
character  is  neither  wicked  nor  cruel ; or  what  was  there  to  prevent 
him  from  putting  us  both  to  death  ? By  restoring  me  to  liberty  he 
would  only  atone  an  error  ; nevertheless,  I should  bless  him  as  a ben- 
efactor. I find  captivity,  however,  by  no  means  insupportable.  Full 
of  trust  in  the  mercy  of  Providence,  I resign  myself  to  the  event ; 
but  the  sight  of  my  imprisonment  afflicts  my  daughter  ; and  for  her 
sake  I desire  my  liberation.  I would  fain  shorten  her  exile  from  the 
world — her  alienation  from  the  pleasures  of  her  age.  Say  ! have 
you  no  human  being  who  sorrows  over  your  misfortunes  ? — no  woman 
who  weeps  for  you  in  secret,  to  whom  you  would  sacrifice  even  your 
pride,  as  an  oppressed  and  injured  man?  Come,  come,  my  dear 
brother  in  adversity  ! authorize  my  friends  to  include  your  name  in 
their  petitions  !” 

Charney  answered  with  a smile,  “No  woman  weeps  for  me  ! no 
one  sighs  for  my  return  ; for  I have  no  longer  gold  to  purchase  their 
affection.  What  is  there  to  allure  me  anew  into  the  world,  where  I 
was  even  less  happ}r  than  at  Fenestrella  ? But  even  were  troops  of 
friends  awaiting  me — had  I still  wealth,  honor,  and  happiness  in 
store— I would  refuse  the  gift  of  freedom  from  that  hand  whose 
power  and  usurpations  I devoted  myself  to  overthrow.” 

“ You  deny  yourself  even  the  enjoyment  of  hope  ?”  said  Girardi. 

“ Never  will  I bestow  the  title  of  emperor  on  one  who  is  either  my 
equal  or  my  inferior.  ” 

“ Beware  of  sacrificing  yourself  to  a sentiment,  the  offspring  of 
vanity  rather  than  of  patriotism!”  cried  Girardi.  “But  peace! 
silence  !”  said  he  more  cautiously.  “ Some  one  approaches  in  ear- 
nest. Addio , away  !”  And  the  venerable  Italian  disappeared  from 
the  grated  window. 

“Thanks!  a thousand  thanks  for  the  microscope!”  was  Char- 
ney’s  last  exclamation,  as  Girardi  vanished  from  his  view.  And  at 
that  moment  the  door  of  the  courtyard  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and 
Ludovico  made  his  appearance  with  the  basket  of  provisions  form- 
ing the  daily  allowance  of  his  prisoner.  Observing  the  count  to  be 
silent  and  absent,  the  jailer  accosted  him  only  by  rattling  the  plates 
as  he  went  by,  as  a signal  that  his  dinner  was  ready.  Then,  having 


46 


PICCIOLA. 


ascended  to  place  all  in  order  in  the  little  chamber,  amused  himself, 
as  he  recrossed  the  court,  wiiii  making  a silent  obedience  to  the 
Signor  and  Signora , as  he  was  now  in  the  habit  of  qualifying  the 
Count  de  Charney  and  his  plant. 

“ The  microscope  is  mine  !”  mused  Charney  when  he  found  him- 
self alone.  ‘ ‘ But  how  have  I merited  such  kind  consideration  on 
the  part  of  a stranger?  Ludovico,  too,  has  become  my  friend. 
Under  the  rough  exterior  of  the  jailer  beats  a kind  and  noble  heart. 
There  exist,  then,  after  all,  virtuous  and  warm-hearted  men.  But 
where  ? In  a prison  ! ’ ’ 

“ Be  thankful  to  adversity,’’  remonstrated  conscience,  “ which  has 
made  you  capable  of  appreciating  a benefit  received.  To  what 
amounts  the  generosity  of  these  two  men  ? One  of  them  watered 
your  plant  for  you  in  secret ; the  other  has  conferred  on  you  the 
means  of  analyzing  its  organization.” 

“ In  the  smallest  services  consists  the  truest  generosity,”  argued 
Charney  in  reply. 

“True,”  resumed  the  voice,  “when  such  services  are  dedicated 
to  your  own  convenience.  Had  Picciola  never  sprung  to  life,  these 
two  beings  would  have  remained  in  your  eyes,  the  one  a doting  old 
man  engrossed  by  puerile  pursuits,  the  other  a gross  and  sordid 
clod  absorbed  by  the  love  of  gain.  In  your  world  of  other  days,  Sir 
Count,  to  what,  pray,  did  you  attachy  ourself  ? To  nothing.  Your 
soul  recoiled  upon  itself,  and  no  man  cared  for  you.  By  love  comes 
love.  It  is  your  attachment  to  Picciola  which  has  obtained  you  the 
affection  of  your  companions.  Picciola  is  the  talisman  by  which  you 
have  attracted  their  regard.  ’ ’ 

Charney  interrupted  this  mono-dialogue  by  a glance  from  the 
microscope  toward  Picciola.  He  has  already  forgotten  the  announce- 
ment of  “ Napoleon,  Emperor  of  the  French,  and  King  of  Italy  !” — 
one-half  of  which  formerly  sufficed  to  convert  him  into  a conspirator 
and  a captive.  How  unimportant  in  his  eyes,  now,  these  honors 
conferred  by  nations,  and  based  upon  the  liberties  of  Europe  ! An 
insect  hovering  over  his  plant,  threatening  mischief  to  its  delicate 
vegetation,  seems  more  alarming  than  the  impending  destruction  of 
the  balance  of  power  by  the  conquests  of  a new  Alexander  1 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Armed  with  his  glass,  Charney  now  extended  his  field  of  botanical 
discovery  ; and  at  every  step  his  enthusiasm  increased.  It  must  be 
owned,  however,  that,  inexperienced  as  he  was  in  the  method  of  sci- 
entific inquiry,  devoid  of  first  principles  and  appropriate  instruments, 


PICCIOLA.  47 

he  often  found  himself  defeated  ; and  the  spirit  of  paradox  became 
insensibly  roused  to  existence  by  the  cavilling  temper  of  his  mind. 

He  invented  half  a hundred  theories  on  the  circulation  of  the  sap  ; 
on  the  coloration  of  the  various  parts  of  the  flower  ; on  the  secretion 
of  different  kinds  of  aroma  by  different  organs  of  the  stem,  the 
leaves,  the  flowers  ; on  the  nature  of  the  gum  and  resin  emitted  by 
vegetables,  and  the  wax  and  honey  extracted  by  bees  from  the  nec- 
tary. At  first,  ready  answers  suggested  themselves  to  all  his  in- 
quiries ; but  new  systems  arose  to  confute,  on  the  morrow,  those  of 
the  preceding  day.  Hay,  Charney  seemed  to  take  delight  in  the  im- 
potence of  his  own  judgment,  as  if  affording  wider  scope  to  the 
efforts  of  his  imagination,  and  an  indefinite  term  to  the  duration  of 
his  experiments  and  inferences. 

A day  of  joy  and  triumph  for  the  enthusiast  was  now  approach- 
ing ! He  had  formerly  heard,  and  heard  with  a smile  of  incredulity, 
allusion  to  the  loves  of  plants,  and  the  sublime  discoveries  of  Lin 
naeus  concerning  vegetable  generation.  It  was  now  his  pleasing  task 
to  watch  the  gradual  accomplishment  of  maternity  in  Picciola  ; and 
when,  with  his  glass  fixed  on  the  stamens  and  pistils  of  the  flower,  he 
beheld  them  suddenly  endowed  with  sensibility  and  action,  the  mind 
of  the  sceptic  became  paralyzed  with  wonder  and  admiration  ! By 
analogical  comparison  his  perceptions  rose  till  they  embraced  the 
vast  scale  of  the  vegetable  and  animal  creation.  He  recognized  with 
a glance  the  mightiness,  the  immensity,  the  harmony  of  the  whole. 
The  mysteries  of  the  universe  seemed  suddenly  developed  before 
him.  His  eyes  grew  dim  with  emotion — the  microscope  escaped  his 
hand.  The  atheist  sinks  back  overpowered  on  his  rustic  bench,  and 
after  nearly  an  hour  of  profound  meditation,  the  following  apostrophe 
burst  from  the  lips  of  Charney  : 

“ Picciola  /”  said  he  in  a tone  of  deep  emotion,  “ I had  once  the 
whole  earth  for  my  wanderings — I was  surrounded  by  those  who 
called  themselves  my  friends,  by  men  of  letters  and  science  ; and  not 
one  of  the  learned  ever  bestowed  upon  me  as  much  .nstruction  as  I 
have  received  from  thee  ! — not  one  of  the  friendly  ever  rendered  me 
such  good  offices  as  thine  ! In  this  miserable  courtyard,  between  the 
stones  of  whose  rugged  pavement  thou  hast  sprung  to  life,  I have 
reflected  more,  and  experienced  more  profound  emotions,  than  while 
traversing  in  freedom  all  the  countries  of  Europe.  Blind  mortal 
that  I have  been  ! When  first  I beheld  thee,  pale,  feeble,  puny,  I 
looked  on  thee  with  contempt ! And  it  was  a companion  that  was 
vouchsafed  to  me — a book  that  was  opened  for  my  instruction — a 
world  that  was  revealing  itself  to  my  wondering  eyes  ! The  com- 
panion solaces  my  daily  cares,  attaching  me  to  the  existence  re- 
stored me  by  her  aid,  and  reconciling  me  with  mankind  whom  I 
had  unfairly  condemned.  The  book  teaches  me  to  despise  all  works 
of  human  invention,  convicting  my  ignorance,  and  rebuking  my 
pride  ; instructing  me  that  science,  like  virtue,  is  to  be  acquired 


48 


PICCIOLA. 


through  lowliness  of  mind.  Inscribed  in  the  living  characters  of  a 
tongue  so  long  unknown  to  me,  it  contains  a thousand  enigmas  of 
which  every  solution  is  a word  of  hope.  The  world  is  the  region 
of  the  soul,  the  abstract  and  criterium  of  celestial  and  eternal  nature  ; 
the  revelation  of  that  organic  law  of  love,  from  which  results  the 
order  of  the  universe,  the  gravitation  of  atoms,  the  attraction  of  suns, 
and  the  electric  union  of  all  created  things,  from  the  highest  star  to 
the  hyssop  on  the  wall,  from  the  crawling  insect  to  man,  who  walks 
the  earth  with  his  brows  elevated  toward  heaven,  perhaps  in  search 
of  the  omnipotent  Author  of  his  being  !” 

The  breast  of  Charney  swelled  with  irrepressible  emotion  as  he 
spoke.  Thought  succeeded  thought  in  his  brain  ; feeling  after  feel- 
ing arose  in  his  heart,  till,  starting  from  his  seat,  he  began  to  traverse 
the  court  with  hurried  footsteps.  At  length,  his  agitation  exhausted, 
he  returned  toward  his  Picciola,  gazed  upon  her  with  ineffable  tender- 
ness, raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  faintly  articulated,  “ Oh,  mighty 
and  unseen  God  ! the  clouds  of  learning  have  too  much  confused  my 
understanding,  the  sophistries  of  human  reason  too  much  hardened 
my  heart,  for  thy  divine  truths  to  penetrate  at  once  into  my  under- 
standing. In  my  unworthiness  to  comprehend  thy  glorious  revela- 
tions, I can  yet  only  call  upon  thy  name,  and  humbly  seek  thy  infi- 
nite but  invisible  protection.’ ’ 

And  with  grave  demeanor,  Charney  retraced  his  steps  to  his  cham- 
ber, where  the  first  sentence  that  met  his  eyes,  inscribed  with  his 
own  hand  upon  the  wall,  was — 

“ God  is  but  a word  !” 

In  another  moment  he  had  superadded  to  the  inscription,  ‘ * A 
word  which  serves  perhaps  to  solve  the  great  enigma  of  creation  !” 

“ Perhaps ,”  the  master  word  of  doubts,  still  disfigured  the  phrase  ! 
But  it  wTas  something  for  the  arrogant  Charney  to  have  arrived  at 
doubt , from  the  extreme  of  absolute  negation.  He  was  recoiling  in  the 
path  of  falsehood  he  had  so  long  pursued.  He  no  longer  pretended 
to  rely  for  support  upon  his  own  strength,  his  own  faculties.  He  is 
willing  now  to  learn,  eager  to  perpetuate  the  soft  emotions  by  which 
his  pride  has  been  subdued,  and  it  is  still  to  the  insignificant  Picciola 
he  turns  for  instruction — for  a creed — a God — an  immortality. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Thus  passed  the  days  of  the  prisoner  ; and  after  whole  hours  de- 
voted to  inquiry  and  analysis,  Charney  loved  to  turn  from  the  weari- 
ness of  his  studies  to  the  brightness  of  his  illusions — from  Picciola 
the  blooming  plant  to  Picciola  the  blooming  girl.  Whenever  the 
awakening  perfumes  of  his  flower  ascended  to  his  chamber,  oppress- 


PICCIOLA. 


49 


ing  his  senses  and  creating  misty  confusion  before  his  eyes,  he  used 
to  exclaim,  “ To-night  Picciola  will  hold  her  court ; I must  hasten 
toPicciola.” 

Thus  predisposed  to  reverie,  his  mind  was  promptly  attuned  into 
the  sort  of  doze  in  which,  during  the  absence  of  reason,  “mimic 
fancy  wakes.”  Oh!  were  it  not,  indeed,  a dearer  enjoyment  than 
any  yet  vouchsafed  to  human  nature,  if  man  could  so  far  acquire 
authority  over  his  dreams  as  to  live  at  will  that  secondary  life  where 
events  succeed  each  other  with  such  rapidity  ; where  centuries  cost 
us  but  one  breathing  hour  ; where  a magic  halo  environs  all  the  actors 
of  the  drama,  and  where  nothing  is  real  but  the  emotions  of  our 
thrilling  hearts.  Would  you  have  music?  Harmonious  concerts 
might  arise  in  spontaneous  unison,  unprefaced  by  discordant  tuning, 
the  anxious  looks  of  the  musicians,  or  the  ungraceful  and  quaint  forms 
of  their  instruments.  Such  is  the  world  of  dreams  ! Pleasure  with- 
out repentance  ; the  rainbow  without  the  storm  ! 

To  such  illusions  did  Charney  resign  himself  ! Faithful  to  the 
gentle  image  of  his  Picciola,  it  was  to  her  he  invariably  appealed  ; and 
the  vision  came  at  his  call,  simple,  modest,  and  beautiful  as  at  its  first 
advent.  Sometimes  he  surrounded  her  with  the  companions  of  his 
early  studies  ; sometimes,  united  with  his  mother  and  sister,  his  im- 
aginary love  served  to  create  around  him  the  domestic  happiness  of  his 
youth.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to  introduce  him  into  a dwelling 
cheered  by  competence  and  adorned  with  elegance,  where  pleasures, 
hitherto  unknown,  came  wooing  his  enjoyment.  After  evoking  the 
joys  of  memory  and  calling  up  reminiscences  of  the  past,  she  gave 
existence  to  hope,  to  ties  undreamed  of  and  joys  unknown.  Myste- 
rious influence  ! Where  was  he  to  find  the  solution  of  the  mystery  ? 
With  the  view  of  future  comparison,  the  count  actually  began  to 
record  on  his  cambric  pages  the  wild  illusions  of  his  dreams. 

One  evening,  in  the  midst  of  a flight  of  fancy,  Picciola  for  the  first 
time  dispelled  the  charm  of  happiness  and  serenity  by  the  exercise 
of  a sinister  influence  ! At  a later  moment  he  recurred  to  the  event 
as  the  effect  of  a fatal  presentiment  ! 

It  was  just  as  the  fragrance  of  the  plant  indicated  the  sixth  hour 
of  evening,  and  Charney  was  musing  at  his  accustomed  post.  Never 
had  that  aromatic  vapor  exercised  its  powers  more  potently  ; for 
more  than  thirty  full-blown  flowers  were  emitting  the  magnetic  at- 
mosphere, so  influential  over  the  senses  of  the  count.  He  fancied 
himself  surrounded  once  more  by  the  crowds  of  society  ; having 
drawn  aside  from  which,  toward  an  esplanade  of  verdure,  his  beloved 
Picciola  deigned  to  follow  his  footsteps.  The  graceful  phantom  ad- 
vanced smiling  toward  him,  and  Charney,  in  a musing  attitude, 
stood  admiring  the  supple  grace  of  the  young  girl,  around  whose 
well-turned  form  the  drapery  of  her  snow-white  dress  played  in  har- 
monious folds,  and  her  raven  tresses,  amid  which  bloomed  the  never- 
absent  flower  ! On  a sudden  he  saw  her  start,  staggeT,  and  extend  her 


50 


PICCIOLA. 


arms  toward  him.  He  tried  to  rush  toward  her,  hut  an  insurmount- 
able obstacle  seemed  to  separate  him  from  her  side.  A cry  of  horror 
instantly  escaped  his  lips,  and  lo  ! the  vision  disappears  ! He  wakes, 
but  it  is  to  hear  a second  cry  respondent  to  his  own  ; yes,  the  cry,  the 
voice  of  a female  ! 

Nevertheless  the  count  is  still  in  his  usual  place — in  the  old  court, 
and  reclining  upon  the  rustic  bench  beside  his  Picciola  ! But  at  the 
grating  of  the  little  window  appeared  the  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
female  form  ! A soft  and  melancholy  countenance,  half  hid  in  shade, 
seems  gazing  upon  him ; but  when,  rising  from  his  seat,  he 
hastens  toward  it,  the  vision  vanishes,  or  rather  the  young  girl  has- 
tens from  the  window.  However  swift  her  disappearance,  Charney 
was  able  to  distinguish  her  features,  her  hair,  her  form,  the  whiteness 
of  her  robe.  He  paused.  Is  he  asleep  or  waking  ? Can  it  be  that 
the  insurmountable  obstacle  which  divides  him  from  Picciola  is  no 
other  than  the  grating  of  a prison  ? 

At  that  moment  Ludovico  hastens  toward  him  with  an  air  of  con- 
sternation. 

“Are  you  again  indisposed,  Signor  Conte?’1  cried  the  jailer. 

‘ ‘ Have  you  had  another  attack  of  your  old  disorder  ? Trondidio  ! 
If  we  are  obliged,  for  form’s  sake,  to  send  for  the  prison  doctor,  I’ll 
take  care,  this  time,  that  no  one  but  Madame  Picciola  and  myself 
have  a hand  in  the  cure  !” 

“ I am  perfectly  wrell,”  replied  Charney,  trying  to  recover  his  com- 
posure. “ What  put  it  into  your  head  that  I was  indisposed  ?” 

“ The  fly-catcher’s  daughter  came  in  search  of  me.  She  saw  you 
stagger,  and  hearing  you  cry  aloud  fancied  you  were  in  need  of  as- 
sistance.” 

The  count  relapsed  into  a fit  of  musing.  It  seemed  to  occur  to  him 
for  the  first  time  that  a young  girl  occasionally  inhabited  that  part 
of  the  prison. 

‘ ‘ The  resemblance  I fancied  I could  discover  between  the  stranger 
and  Picciola  is  doubtless  a new  delusion  !”  said  be  to  himself.  And 
he  now  recalled  to  mind  Teresa’s  interest  in  his  favor,  mentioned  to 
him  by  the  venerable  Girardi.  The  young  Piedmontese  had  com- 
passionated his  condition  during  his  illness.  To  her  he  is  indebted 
for  the  possession  of  his  microscope.  His  heart  becomes  suddenly 
touched  with  gratitude  ; and  in  the  first  effusion,  a sudden  remark 
seems  to  sever  the  double  image,  the  young  girl  of  his  dreams,  from 
the  young  girl  of  his  waking  hours  ; “ Girardi’s  daughter  wore  no 
flower  in  her  hair.  ” 

That  moment,  but  not  without  hesitation,  not  without  self-reproach, 
he  plucked  with  a trembling  hand  from  his  plant  a small  branch  cov- 
ered with  blossoms  ! 

“ Formerly,”  thought  Charney,  “ what  sums  of  money  did  I lavish 
to  adorn,  with  gold  and  gems,  brow's  devoted  to  perjury  and  shame  ! 
Upon  how  many  abandoned  women  and  heartless  men  did  I throw 


PICCIOLA. 


51 


away  my  fortune,  without  caring  more  for  them  than  for  the  feelings 
of  my  own  bosom,  which  at  the  same  moment  I placed  in  the  dust 
tinder  their  feet.  Oh  ! if  a gift  derives  its  value  from  the  regard  in 
which  it  is  held  by  the  donor,  never  was  a richer  token  offered  by 
man  to  woman,  my  Picciola,  than  these  flowers  which  I borrow  from 
thy  precious  branches  to  bestow  on  the  daughter  of  Girardi !” 

Then,  placing  the  blossomed  bough  in  the  hands  of  the  jailer, 
“ Present  these  in  my  name  to  the  daughter  of  my  venerable  neighbor, 
good  Ludovico  !”  said  he.  “ Thank  her  for  the  generous  interest 
she  vouchsafes  me  ; and  tell  her  that  the  Count  de  Charney,  poor, 
and  a prisoner,  has  nothing  to  offer  her  more  worthy  her  acceptance.” 
Ludovico  received  the  token  with  an  air  of  stupefaction.  He  had 
begun  to  enter  so  completely  into  the  passion  of  the  captive  for  his 
plant  that  he  could  not  conjecture  by  what  services  the  daughter  of 
the  fly-catcher  had  merited  so  distinguished  a mark  of  munificence. 

“ No  matter  ! Corpo  di  San  Pasquale  /”  exclaimed  Ludovico,  as  he 
passed  the  postern.  “ They  have  long  admired  my  goddaughter  at 
a distance.  Let  us  see  what  they  will  say  to  the  brightness  of  her 
complexion  and  sweetness  of  her  breath  on  a nearer  acquaintance, 
Piccioletta  mia , andiamo  /” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Many  sacrifices  of  a similar  kind,  however,  were  now  required  of 
Charney.  The  epoch  of  fructification  is  arrived.  The  brilliant  petals 
of  many  of  the  flowers  have  fallen,  and  their  stamens  become  useless, 
decaying,  like  the  cotyledons,  after  the  first  leaves  had  attained  ma- 
turity. The  ovary  containing  the  germ  of  the  seeds  begins  to  enlarge 
within  the  calyx.  The  fertile  flowers  lay  aside  their  beauty,  like 
matrons  who,  in  achieving  their  maternal  triumphs,  begin  to  disdain 
for  themselves  the  vain  adornments  of  coquetry. 

The  count  now  devotes  his  attention  to  the  most  sublime  of  all  the 
mysteries  of  nature,  the  perpetuation  of  created  kinds  and  the  re- 
production of  life.  In  opening  and  analyzing  a bud  detached  some 
time  before  from  the  tree,  by  the  injury  of  an  insect,  Charney  had 
noticed  the  primary  germ  destined  to  fertilization,  but  demanding 
protection  and  nutriment  from  the  flower  before  its  feeble  organiza- 
tion could  be  perfected.  Admirable  foresight  of  nature  ! as  yet  un- 
explained by  the  logic  of  science.  But  now,  the  reproduction  of  a 
future  Picciola  is  to  be  completed  ; and  the  narrow  seed  must  be  made 
to  comprehend  all  the  development  of  a perfect  plant.  The  curious 
observer  is  to  direct  his  notice  to  the  fecundation  of  the  vegetable 
egg,  and  for  this  purpose  Picciola  must  be  submitted  to  further 
mutilation.  No  matter  !— she  is  already  preparing  herself  for  the  rep- 


52 


PICCIOLA. 


aration  of  her  losses.  On  all  sides  buds  are  reappearing.  From 
every  joint  of  her  stem,  or  branches,  new  shoots  are  putting  forth  to 
produce  a second  flowering. 

In  pursuance  of  his  task,  Charney  soon  took  his  usual  seat,  with 
the  grave  demeanor  of  an  experimentalist.  But  scarcely  had  he  cast 
his  eyes  upon  the  plant  when  he  is  shocked  by  the  air  of  languor  ap- 
parent in  his  favorite.  The  flowers,  inclining  on  their  peduncles, 
seem  to  have  lost  their  power  of  turning  toward  the  sun,  their  leaves 
curling  inward  their  deep  and  lustrous  verdure.  For  a moment 
Charney  fancies  that  a heavy  storm  is  at  hand,  and  prepares  his  mats 
and  osier  bands  to  secure  Picciola  from  the  force  of  the  wind  or 
hail.  But  no  ! the  sky  is  cloudless,  the  air  serene,  and  the  lark 
is  heard  singing  out  of  sight,  overhead,  secure  in  the  breathlessness 
of  the  blue  expanse  of  heaven. 

Charney ’s  brow  becomes  overcast.  “ She  is  in  want  of  water,”  is 
his  first  idea  ; but  having  eagerly  fetched  the  pitcher  from  his  cham- 
ber, and,  on  his  knees  beside  the  plant,  removed  the  lower  branches  in 
order  at  once  to  reach  the  root,  he  is  struck  motionless  with  conster- 
nation. All — all — is  explained.  His  Picciola  is  about  to  perish  ! 

While  the  flowers  and  perfumes  were  multiplying  to  increase  his 
studies  and  enjoyments,  the  stem  of  the  plant  also  was  increasing 
unobserved.  Inclosed  between  two  stones  of  the  pavement,  and 
strangled  by  their  pressure,  a deep  indentation  first  gave  token  of  her 
sufferings,  the  surface  of  which  being  at  length  crushed  and  wounded 
by  the  edges  of  the  granite,  the  sap  has  begun  to  exude  from  the 
fissures,  and  the  strength  of  the  plant  is  exhausted  ! 

Limited  in  the  allotment  of  soil  for  her  nutriment,  her  sap  un- 
naturally expanded,  her  strength  overtasked,  Picciola  must  die,  unless 
prompt  relief  can  be  afforded  ! Her  doom  is  sealed  ! One  only  re- 
source remains.  By  removing  the  stones  that  weigh  upon  her  roots 
the  plant  may  yet  be  preserved.  But  how  to  effect  this,  without  an 
implement  to  assist  his  efforts  ? Pushing  toward  the  postern  and 
knocking  vehemently,  the  count  summons  Ludovico  to  his  aid. 
But,  although  on  the  jailer’s  arrival  the  explanation  of  the  disaster 
and  the  sight  of  his  expiring  goddaughter  overwhelm  him  with  sor- 
row, no  other  answer  can  be  obtained  by  Charney  to  his  entreaties 
that  the  pavement  may  instantly  be  removed,  than  “ Eccellenza  ! the 
thing  is  impossible.!” 

Without  hesitation,  the  count  attempted  to  conciliate  the  jailer’s 
acquiescence  by  the  offer  no  longer  of  the  gilt  goblet  of  his  dressing- 
case,  but  the  whole  casket. 

But  Ludovico,  assuming  his  most  imposing  attitude,  folded  his 
arms  upon  his  breast,  exclaiming,  in  his  half-provincial,  half-Pied- 
montese dialect,  “ Bagasse,  bagasse  ! Ludovico  is  too  old  a soldier  to 
submit  to  bribery.  I know  my  orders.  I know  my  duty.  It  is  to 
the  captain-commandant  you  must  address  yourself.” 

“No,”  cried  Charney.  “Rather  would  I tear  up  the  stones 


PICCIOLA.  53 

with  my  hands,  even  were  my  bleeding  nails  sacrificed  in  the  at- 
tempt !” 

“ Ay,  ay  ! time  will  show  !”  replied  Ludovico,  resuming  the  pipe, 
which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  holding  half  extinguished  under  his 
thumb,  during  his  colloquies  with  the  count ; and  after  a puff  or  two 
turning  on  his  heel  to  depart. 

“Good  Ludovico  ! I have  hitherto  found  you  so  kind,  so  chari- 
table ! Can  you  do  nothing  for  my  assistance  ?”  persisted  Charney. 

“ Trondidio /”  answered  the  jailer,  trying  to  conceal  by  an  oath 
the  emotion  gaining  upon  his  feelings,  “ can’t  you  leave  me  a mo- 
ment’s peace,  you  and  your  cursed  gilly-flower  ? As  to  th e poverina, 
I forgive  her — ’tis  no  fault  of  Picciola  ! — but  as  to  you,  whose  obsti- 
nacy will  certainly  be  the  death  of  the  poor  thing — ” 

“ What  would  you  have  me  do,  then  ?”  exclaimed  the  count. 

“ Petition  the  commandant,  I tell  you,  petition  the  commandant !” 
cried  Ludovico. 

“ Never  !” 

“ There  you  are  again  ; but  if  your  pride  is  so  tetchy,  will  you  give 
me  leave  to  speak  to  him  ?” 

“ No  !”  replied  Charney  ; “ I forbid  you  !” 

“ You  forbid  me?”  cried  the  jailer;  “ D — e!  is  it  your  orders  I 
am  to  obey  ? If  I choose  to  speak  to  him,  who  is  to  prevent  me  ?” 

“ Ludovico  !” 

“ Set  your  mind  at  ease  ; I am  not  going  to  undertake  any  such 
fool’s  errand.  What  business  is  it  of  mine  ? Let  her  live,  let  her  die 
— die  m’importa?  If  you  want  to  put  an  end  to  the  plant,  ’tis  your 
own  affair — Buona  notteV ’ 

“But  has  your  commandant  sense  enough  to  understand  me?” 
demanded  the  count,  detaining  him. 

“Why  not?— do  you  take  him  for  a kinserlick  ? — tell  him  your 
story  straight  on  end — pack  it  into  pretty  little  sentences,  like  a 
scholar  who  knows  what  he  is  about — for  now’s  the  time  to  put  your 
learning  to  some  use.  Why  shouldn’t  he  enter  into  your  love  for  a 
flower  as  well  as  I have  ? Besides,  I shall  be  there  to  put  in  a word. 
I can  tell  him  what  a capital  tisane  is  to  be  made  of  the  herb.  The 
commandant’s  an  ailing  man  himself.  He  has  got  a sharp  fit  of  the 
rheumatism  upon  him  at  this  very  moment,  which  will  perhaps  make 
him  enter  into  the  case.” 

Charney  still  hesitated  ; but  Ludovico  pointed  with  one  of  his 
knowing  winks  to  Picciola,  sick  and  suffering  ; and,  with  a gesture 
of  anxiety  from  the  count,  off  went  the  jailer  on  his  errand. 

Some  minutes  afterward  a man  in  a half -military,  half-civil  uni- 
form made  his  appearance  in  the  court,  with  an  inkstand,  and  a sheet 
of  paper  bearing  a government  stamp.  As  Ludovico  had  announced, 
this  person  remained  present  while  Charney  wrote  out  his  petition, 
received  it  sealed  into  his  hand,  and,  with  a respectful  bow,  departed, 
carrying  off  the  inkstand. 


54 


PICCIOLA. 


Reader,  despise  not  the  self-abasement  of  the  haughty  Count  de 
Charney  ! — marvel  not  at  the  readiness  with  which  he  has  consented 
to  an  act  of  humiliation.  Remember  that  Picciola  is  all  in  all  to  the 
poor  prisoner  ! Reflect  upon  the  influence  of  isolation  on  the  firmest 
mind,  the  proudest  spirit  ! Had  he  recourse  to  submission  when 
himself , oppressed  with  suffering,  pining  after  the  free  air  of  liberty, 
overpowered  by  the  walls  of  his  dungeon,  as  Picciola  by  its  pave- 
ment ? No  ! for  his  own  woes  the  count  had  fortitude  ; but  between 
himself  and  his  favorite,  a league  of  mutual  obligation  subsists, 
sacred  enjoyments  have  arisen.  Picciola  preserved  Ms  life  ; must 
her  own  be  sacrificed  to  liis  self-love  ? 

The  venerable  Girardi  presently  beheld  the  count  pacing  the  little 
court  with  agitated  footsteps  and  gestures  of  anxiety  and  impatience. 
How  tediously  were  the  moments  passing — how  cruel  the  delay  to 
which  he  was  exposed  ! Three  hours  had  elapsed  since  he  dis- 
patched his  petition,  and  no  answer.  As  the  sap  of  the  expiring 
plant  oozed  from  the  wounded  bark,  Charney  felt  that  he  had  rather 
his  own  blood  were  required  of  him.  The  old  man,  addressing  him 
from  the  window,  tried  in  vain  to  afford  him  consolation  ; but  at 
length,  more  experienced  than  himself  in  accidents  of  the  vegetable 
and  animal  kingdom,  indicated  a mode  of  closing  up  the  wounds  of 
the  stem  so  as  to  remove  at  least  one  source  of  peril. 

With  a mixture  of  finely-chopped  straw  and  moistened  clay  he 
forms  a mastic,  easily  fixed  upon  the  bark  with  bandages  of  torn 
cambric.  An  hour  passed  rapidly  in  the  performance,  but  at  its 
close  the  count  has  to  bewail  anew  the  silence  of  the  governor. 

At  the  usual  dinner-hour,  Ludovico  made  his  appearance,  with  a 
vexed  and  care-worn  countenance,  annunciatory  of  no  good  tidings. 
The  jailer  scarcely  deigns  a reply  to  the  interrogations  of  Charney, 
except  by  monosyllables  or  the  roughest  remonstrances. 

“ Can’t  you  wait  ? What  use  in  so  much  hurry  ? Give  him  time  to 
write  !” 

Ludovico  seemed  preparing  himself  for  the  part  which  he  found 
he  should  be  required  to  play  in  the  sequel. 

Charney  touched  not  a morsel  : the  sentence  of  life  or  death  was 
impending  over  Picciola,  and  he  sat  trying  to  inspire  himself  with 
courage,  by  protesting  that  none  but  the  most  cruel  of  men  could 
refuse  so  trifling  a concession  as  he  had  asked.  But  his  impatience 
did  but  increase  with  his  arguments,  as  if  the  commandant  could 
liflve  no  business  more  important  in  hand  than  to  address  an  imme- 
diate answer  to  his  memorial.  At  the  slightest  noise  Charney ’s  eyea 
turned  eagerly  toward  the  door  by  which  he  was  expecting  the  fiat 
of  the  governor. 

Evening  came — no  news  ; night — not  a word  ! The  unfortunate 
prisoner  did  not  close  his  eyes  that  night ! 


PICCIOLA. 


55 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

On  the  morrow  the  anxiously  expected  missive  was  delivered  to 
him  In  the  dry  and  laconic  style  of  office,  the  commandant  an, 
nounced  that  no  change  could  be  made  in  the  distribution  of  the 
walls,  moats,  or  ditches  of  the  fortress  of  Fenestrella,  unless  by  the 
express  sanction  of  the  governor  of  Turin  ; “ and  the  pavement  of 
the  court,”  added  the  commandant,  “is  virtually  a wall  of  the 
prison.  ’ ’ 

Charney  stood  confounded  by  the  stupidity  of  such  an  argument ! 
To  make  the  preservation  of  a flower  a state  question — a demolition 
of  the  imperial  fortification — to  wait  a reply  from  the  governor  of 
Turin  !— wait  a century,  when  a day’s  delay  was  likely  to  prove 
fatal ! The  governor  might  perhaps  refer  him  to  the  prime  minister, 
the  minister  to  the  senate,  the  senate  to  the  emperor  himself. 
What  profound  contempt  for  the  littleness  of  mankind  arose  in  his 
bosom  at  the  idea  ! Even  Ludovico  appeared  little  better  in  his  eyes 
than  the  assistant  of  the  executioner  ; for  on  the  first  outburst  of  his 
indignation  the  jailer  remonstrated  in  the  tone  of  an  underling  of  the 
administration,  replying  to  all  his  entreaties  by  citing  the  rules  and 
regulations  of  the  fortress. 

Charney  drew  near  to  the  feeble  invalid  whose  bloom  was  already 
withering  ; and  with  what  grief  did  he  now  contemplate  her  fading 
hues  ! The  happiness,  the  poetry  of  his  life  seemed  vanishing  be- 
fore him.  The  fragrance  of  Picciola  already  indicated  a mistaken 
hour,  like  a watch  whose  movements  are  out  of  order.  Every  blos- 
som drooping  on  its  stem  had  renounced  the  power  of  turning  to- 
ward the  sun,  as  a dying  girl  closes  her  eyes  that  she  may  not  be^ 
hold  the  lover,  the  sight  of  whom  might  attach  her  anew  to  a world 
from  which  she  is  departing. 

While  Charney  was  giving  way  to  these  painful  reflections,  the 
voice  of  his  venerable  companion  in  captivity  appealed  to  his  atten- 
tion. 

“ My  dear  comrade,”  whispered  the  mild  and  paternal  accents  of 
the  old  man,  “ if  she  should  die — and  I fear  her  hours  are  numbered 
— what  will  become  of  you  here  alone  ? What  occupation  will  you 
find  to  fill  the  place  of  those  pursuits  that  have  become  so  dear  to 
you  ? You  will  expire,  in  your  turn,  of  lassitude  and  ennui ; solitude 
once  invaded  becomes  insupportable  in  the  renewal  ! You  will  sink 
under  its  weight,  as  I should,  were  I now  parted  from  my  daughter 
— from  the  guardian  angel  whose  smile  is  the  sunshine  of  my  prison. 
With  respect  to  your  plant,  the  alpine  breezes  doubtless  wafted 
hither  the  seed,  or  a bird  of  the  air  dropped  it  from  his  beak  ; and 
even  were  the  same  circumstance  to  furnish  you  with  a second  Pic- 
ciola, your  joy  in  the  present  would  be  gone,  prepared  as  you  would 


56 


PICCIOLA. 


be  to  see  it  perish  like  the  first.  My  dear  neighbor,  be  persuaded  ! — 
suffer  me  to  have  your  liberty  interceded  for  by  my  friends.  Your 
release  will  perhaps  be  more  easily  obtained  than  you  are  aware  of. 
A thousand  traits  of  clemency  and  generosity  on  the  part  of  the  new 
emperor  are  everywhere  rumored.  He  is  now  at  Turin,  accompanied 
by  Josephine.” 

And  this  last  name  was  pronounced  by  the  old  man  as  if  it  con- 
tained a promise  of  success. 

“At  Turin?”  exclaimed  Charney,  eagerly  raising  his  drooping 
head. 

“ For  the  last  two  days,”  replied  Girardi,  delighted  to  see  his  advice 
less  vehemently  rejected  than  usual  by  the  count. 

‘ ‘ And  how  far  is  it  from  Turin  to  Fenestrella  ?’  ’ continued  Charney. 

‘ ‘ By  the  Giaveno  and  Avigliano  road,  not  more  than  seven  leagues.  ’ ’ 

“ What  space  of  time  is  necessary  for  the  journey  ?” 

“ Four  or  five  hours  at  the  least ; for  at  this  moment  the  roads  are 
obstructed  by  troops,  baggage-wagons,  and  the  equipages  of  those 
who  are  hastening  to  the  approaching  festival.  The  road  that  winds 
through  the  valleys  by  the  river-side  is  certainly  the  longest,  but  in 
the  end  would  probably  cause  less  delay.” 

“ And  do  you  think  it  possible,”  resumed  Charney,  “ to  procure  a 
messenger  for  me  who  would  reach  Turin  this  very  night  ?” 

“ My  daughter  would  try  to  find  a trustworthy  person.” 

“ And  you  say  that  General  Bonaparte — that  the  First  Consul — ” 

“ I said  the  emperor ,”  gravely  interrupted  Girardi. 

“ The  emperor,  then— you  say  that  the  emperor  is  at  Turin?”  re- 
sumed Charney,  as  if  gathering  courage  for  some  strong  measure. 
“ I will  address  a memorial  then  to  the  emperor.”  And  the  count 
dwelt  upon  the  latter  word,  as  if  to  accustom  himself  to  the  new 
road  he  had  determined  to  follow. 

“Heaven’s  mercy  be  praised!”  ejaculated  the  old  man;  “for 
Heaven  itself  has  inspired  this  victory  over  the  instigations  of  sinful 
human  pride  ! Yes,  write  ! let  your  petition  for  pardon  be  worded 
in  the  proper  form  ; and  my  friends  Fossombroni,  Cotenna,  and 
Delarue  will  support  it  with  all  their  interest,  with  Marescalchi,  the 
minister,  with  Cardinal  Caprara,  and  even  with  Melzi,  who  has  just 
been  appointed  chancellor  of  the  new  kingdom.  Who  knows  ? We 
may  perhaps  quit  Fenestrella  on  the  same  day  ! — you  to  recommence 
a life  of  usefulness  and  activity,  I to  follow  the  gentle  guidance  of 
my  daughter.” 

“Nay,  sir,  nay,”  cried  the  count.  “ Forgive  me  if  I decline  the 
protection  to  which  your  good-will  would  generously  recommend  me. 
It  is  to  the  emperor  in  person  that  my  memorial  must  be  remitted — 
to-night  or  early  in  the  morning.  Do  you  answer  to  me  for  a mes- 
senger ?” 

“ I do,”  said  the  old  man  firmly,  after  a momentary  pause. 

“One  question  more,”  added  Charney.  “Is  there  no  chance  of 


PICCIOLA. 


5? 


your  being  compromised  by  the  service  you  are  so  kind  as  to  render 
me?” 

“ The  pleasure  of  being  of  use  to  you  leaves  me  no  leisure  for  ap- 
prehension,” answered  Girardi.  “ Let  me  but  lend  my  aid  to  the 
alleviation  of  your  afflictions,  and  I am  content.  Should  evil  arise, 
I know  how  to  submit  to  the  decrees  of  Providence.” 

Charney  was  deeply  touched  by  these  simple  expressions.  Tears 
glistened  in  his  eyes  as  he  raised  them  toward  the  good  old  man. 

“ What  would  I give  to  press  your  hand  !”  cried  he  ; and  he 
stretched  out  his  arm  with  the  utmost  effort,  in  hopes  to  reach  the 
grated  window,  while  Girardi  extended  Ms  between  the  bars.  But  it 
was  all  in  vain.  A movement  of  mutual  sympathy  was  the  utmost 
that  could  pass  between  them. 

When  Charney  took  leave  of  Picciola,  on  his  way  to  his  chamber, 
he  could  not  refrain  from  whispering,  “ Courage  ! I shall  save  thee 
yet !”  And,  having  reached  his  miserable  camera , he  selected  the 
whitest  of  his  remaining  handkerchiefs,  mended  his  toothpick  with 
the  greatest  care,  made  up  a fresh  supply  of  ink,  and  set  to  work. 
When  his  memorial  was  completed,  which  was  not  without  a thou- 
sand pangs  of  wounded  pride,  a little  cord  descended  from  the  grating 
of  Girardi ’s  window,  to  which  the  paper  was  attached  by  the  count, 
and  carefully  drawn  up. 

An  hour  afterward  the  person  who  had  undertaken  to  present  the 
petition  to  the  emperor  was  proceeding,  accompanied  by  a guide, 
through  the  valleys  of  Susa,  Bussolino,  and  St.  George,  along  the 
bank  of  the  river  Doria.  Both  were  on  horseback  ; but  the  greater 
their  haste  the  more  perplexing  the  obstacles  by  which  their  way  was 
impeded.  Recent  rains  had  broken  away  the  bank  ; the  river  was, 
in  many  spots,  overflowing  ; and  more  than  one  raging  torrent  ap- 
peared to  unite  the  Doria  with  the  lake  Avigliano.  Already  the 
forges  of  Giaveno  were  reddening  in  the  horizon,  announcing  that  the 
day  was  about  to  close,  when,  joyfully  regaining  the  high  road,  they 
entered,  though  not  without  having  surmounted  many  difficulties,  the 
magnificent  avenue  of  Rivoli ; and  late  in  the  evening  arrived  at 
Turin.  The  first  tidings  by  which  they  were  saluted  was  an  an- 
nouncement that  the  emperor-king  had  already  proceeded  to  Alex- 
andria, 


CHAPTER  XV. 

At  dawn  of  day  next  morning  the  city  of  Alexandria  was  arrayed 
in  all  its  attributes  of  festivity.  An  immense  population  circulated 
in  its  streets,  festooned  with  tapestry,  garlands  of  flowers,  and  glossy 
foliage.  The  crowd  pressed  chiefly  from  the  Town  Hall,  inhabited 
by  Napoleon  and  Josephine,  toward  the  triumphal  arch  erected  at  the 


58 


PICCIOLA. 


extremity  of  the  suburb  through  which  they  were  to  pass  on  their 
way  to  the  memorable  plains  of  Marengo. 

The  whole  way  from  Alexandria  to  Marengo,  the  same  populace, 
the  same  cries,  the  same  braying  of  trumpets.  Never  had  the  pil- 
grimage to  the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of  Loretto,  never  had  even  the 
Holy  Jubilee  of  Rome,  attracted  such  multitudes  as  were  proceeding 
toward  the  field  of  that  tremendous  battle,  whose  ashes  were  yet  cold 
in  the  earth.  On  the  plain  of  Marengo  the  emperor  has  promised  to 
preside  over  a sham  fight,  a mimic  representation  given  in  honor  of 
the  signal  victory  obtained  five  years  before  upon  the  spot  by  the 
Consul  Bonaparte. 

Tables,  raised  on  trestles,  appeared  to  line  the  road.  The  people, 
in  innumerable  masses,  are  eating,  drinking,  singing,  shouting,  and 
acting  plays  in  the  open  air.  Even  preaching  is  not  neglected  ; for 
more  than  one  pulpit  has  been  improvisated  between  the  theatres  and 
wine-shops,  from  which  hosts  of  greasy  monks,  not  satisfied  with 
giving  their  benediction  to  the  passengers,  and  exhorting  them  to 
temperance  and  sobriety,  gratify  their  avarice  by  the  sale  of  conse- 
crated chaplets  and  little  virgins  carved  in  ivory. 

In  the  long  and  only  street  of  the  village  of  Marengo,  every  house, 
transferred  into  an  inn,  presented  a scene  of  noise  and  confusion. 
To  every  window  the  eyes  of  the  spectators  are  attracted  by  strings 
of  smoked  hams  or  sausages  ; of  quails  or  red  partridges,  or  pyra- 
mids of  gingerbread  and  cakes.  People  are  pushing  in  or  pushing 
out  at  every  door  ; Italians  and  French,  soldiers  or  peasants  ; heaps 
of  macaroni,  of  marchpane,  and  other  dainties,  are  beginning  to 
disappear.  In  the  dark  and  narrow  staircases  people  rub  quarrel- 
somely against  each  other  ; some  even  compelled,  by  the  rapacity  of 
their  neighbors,  to  raise  over  their  heads  the  food  they  are  carrying, 
while  a cleverer  hand  and  longer  arm  than  their  own  makes  off, 
unperceived,  with  the  savory  burden — whether  a buttered  loaf, 
figs,  grapes,  oranges,  a Turin  ham,  a larded  quail,  a force-meat  pie, 
or  an  excellent  stvfato , in  its  tureen — when  cries  of  indignation  or 
shrieks  of  distress,  accompanied  by  mockeries  and  loud  laughter,  re- 
sound on  every  side.  The  thief,  in  the  ascending  line  upon  the  stair- 
case, satisfied  with  his  plunder,  tries  to  turn  back  and  run  away.  The 
victim,  in  the  descending  line,  robbed  of  his  dinner,  attempts  to  return 
and  furnish  himself  with  new  provisions  ; and  the  flux  and  reflux  of 
the  crowd,  disorganized  by  these  irregular  movements,  is  pushed 
partly  into  the  street  and  partly  into  the  warehouse  on  the  second 
story,  amid  oaths,  imprecations,  and  peals  of  laughter  ; while  their 
discomfiture  is  hailed  with  added  uproar  by  the  drinkers  already  es- 
tablished in  the  wine-shops  of  the  ground  floor,  in  defiance  of  the 
sage  counsels  of  the  monks. 

From  one  room  to  another,  among  tables  covered  with  dishes  and 
surrounded  with  guests,  are  seen  circulating  the  hostess  and  gian - 
nine , or  waitresses  of  the  house  ; some  with  gay-colored  aprons, 


PICCIOLA. 


59 


powdered  hair,  and  the  coquettish  little  poniard,  which  forms  part 
of  their  holiday  costume  ; others  with  short  petticoats,  long  braids  of 
hair,  naked  feet,  and  a thousand  glittering  ornaments  of  tinsel  or  gold. 
But  to  these  animated  scenes  in  the  village  or  the  road,  the  chamber 
or  the  street ; to  these  cries,  songs,  exclamations,  the  noise  of  music, 
dancing,  talking,  and  the  jingling  of  plates  and  glasses,  other  sounds 
of  a different  nature  are  about  to  succeed. 

In  an  hour  the  thundering  noise  of  cannon  will  be  heard — cannon 
almost  harmless  indeed,  and  likely  only  to  break  the  windows  of  the 
houses.  The  little  street  will  echo  with  the  word  of  command,  and 
every  house  be  eclipsed  by  the  smoke  of  volleys  of  musketry  charged 
with  powder.  Then  beware  of  pillage,  unless  every  remnant  of  pro- 
vision has  been  placed  in  safety  ; nay,  let  the  gay  giannina  look  to 
herself  ; for  mimic  war  is  apt,  in  such  particulars,  to  imitate  its  pro- 
totype. In  great  particulars,  however,  no  less  ; for  nothing  can  ex- 
ceed the  majesty  of  the  preparations  for  the  sham  fight  upon  the 
plain  of  Marengo. 

A magnificent  throne,  planted  round  with  tricolored  standards,  is 
raised  upon  one  of  the  few  hillocks  which  diversify  the  field.  Al- 
ready the  troops,  in  every  variety  of  uniform,  are  defiling  toward  the 
spot.  The  trumpet  appeals  to  the  cavalry  ; the  rolling  of  drums 
seems  to  cover  the  whole  surface  of  the  plain,  which  trembles  under 
the  heavy  progress  of  the  artillery  and  ammunition- wagons.  The 
aides-de-camp,  in  their  glittering  uniforms,  are  galloping  hither  and 
thither  ; the  banners  waving  to  the  wind,  which  causes,  at  the  same 
time,  a pleasant  undulation  of  the  feathers,  aigrettes,  and  tricolored 
plumes  ; while  the  sun,  that  ever-present  guest  at  the  fetes  of  Napo- 
leon, that  radiant  illustrator  of  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the  empire, 
casts  its  vivid  reflections  upon  the  golden  embroideries,  the  brass  and 
bronze  of  the  cannon,  helmets,  cuirasses,  and  the  sixty  thousand  bay- 
onets bristling  the  tumultuous  field. 

By  degrees  the  troops,  arriving  with  hurried  march  at  the  ap- 
pointed spot,  continue  to  force  backward,  in  a wide  semicircle  of 
retreat,  the  crowds  of  curious  spectators,  broken  up  like  the  rippling 
billows  of  the  ocean,  by  the  progress  of  one  enormous  wave  ; while 
a few  horsemen,  charging  along  the  line,  proceeded  to  clear  the  field 
for  action. 

The  village  is  now  deserted  ; the  gay  tents  are  struck,  the  trestles 
removed,  the  songs  and  clamors  reduced  to  silence.  On  all  sides  are 
to  be  seen,  scattered  along  the  vast  circuit  of  the  plain,  men  inter- 
rupted in  their  sport  or  repasts,  and  women  dragging  away  their 
children,  terrified  by  the  flashing  sabres  or  loud  neighing  of  the 
chargers. 

It  is  no  difficult  matter  to  discern,  by  attentively  examining  the 
countenances  of  the  men  still  collected  under  the  same  colors,  to 
which  among  them  the  orders  of  the  general-in* chief,  Marshal  Lannes, 
has  assigned,  in  the  coming  fray,  the  glory  of  victory— to  which  the 


60 


PICCIOLA* 


duty  of  being  vanquished  ; while  the  gallant  marshal  himself,  fol- 
lowed by  a numerous  etat-major , is  seen  tracing  and  reconnoitring 
the  ground,  on  which  it  has  been  already  his  lot  to  figure  with  such 
distinction.  He  now  distributed  to  each  brigade  its  part  in  the  com- 
ing battle  ; taking  care,  however,  to  omit  in  the  representation  the 
blunders  of  that  great  and  terrible  day,  the  14th  of  June,  1800  ; for, 
after  all,  it  is  but  a delicate  flattery  in  military  tactics,  a madrigal, 
composed  with  salvos  of  artillery,  which  is  about  to  be  recited  in 
honor  of  the  new  sovereign  of  Italy. 

The  troops  now  proceed  to  form  into  line,  deploy  and  form  again, 
at  the  word  of  command  ; when  military  symphonies  are  heard  from 
the  side  of  Alexandria  ; vague  murmurs  increase  from  the  mass  of 
human  population,  which,  protected  by  the  streams  of  the  Tanaro, 
the  Bormida,  the  Orba,  and  the  ravines  of  Tortona,  form  the  moving 
girdle  of  the  vast  arena.  Suddenly  the  drum  beats  to  arms  ; cries 
and  huzzas  burst  from  amid  circling  clouds  of  dust ; sabres  glitter  in 
the  sunshine  ; muskets  are  shouldered,  as  if  by  a mechanical  move- 
ment ; while  a brilliant  equipage,  drawn  by  eight  noble  horses,  ca- 
parisoned and  emblazoned  with  the  arms  of  Italy  and  France,  conveys 
to  the  foot  of  their  throne  the  emperor  and  empress — Napoleon  and 
Josephine. 

The  emperor,  after  receiving  homage  from  all  the  deputations  of 
Italy,  the  envoys  of  Lucca,  Genoa,  Florence,  Rome,  and  even 
Prussia,  mounts  impatiently  on  horseback,  and  instantaneously  the 
whole  plain  is  overspread  with  fire  and  smoke. 

Such  were  the  sports  of  the  youthful  hero  ! War  for  his  pastime, 
war  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  puissant  destinies  ! Nothing  less 
than  war  could  satisfy  that  ardent  temperament,  formed  for  conquest 
and  supremacy,  to  which  the  subjugation  of  the  whole  world  would 
alone  have  left  an  hour  of  leisure  ! 

An  officer,  appointed  by  the  emperor,  stood  explaining  to  Jose- 
phine, as  she  sat  solitary  on  her  throne,  half  terrified  by  the  spectacle 
before  her,  the  meaning  of  the  various  manoeuvres  and  the  object  of 
every  evolution.  He  showed  her  the  Austrian  general,  Melas,  ex- 
pelling the  French  from  the  village  of  Marengo,  overpowering  them 
at  Pietra-Buona,  at  Castel-Ceriolo  ; and  Bonaparte,  suddenly  arrest- 
ing him  in  the  midst  of  his  victorious  career  with  only  nine  hundred 
men  of  the  consular  guard.  Her  attention  was  next  directed  to  one 
of  the  most  important  movements  of  the  battle. 

The  republicans  appear  to  be  giving  way,  when  Desaix  suddenly 
appears  on  the  Tortona  road  ; and  the  terrible  Hungarian  column, 
under  Zach,  marches  to  meet  him.  But,  while  the  officer  was  yet 
speaking,  Josephine’s  attention  is  diverted  from  the  military  move- 
ments by  a sort  of  confusion  around  her  ; on  demanding  the  cause 
of  which,  she  is  informed  that  a “young  girl,  having  imprudently 
cleared  the  line  of  military  operations,  at  the  risk  of  being  crushed 
by  the  artillery  or  trampled  by  charges  of  cavalry,  is  creating  fur- 


PIGCIOLA. 


61 


ther  confusion  by  her  obstinacy  in  pressing  toward  the  presence  of 
her  Majesty  the  empress-queen.” 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

Teresa — for  the  intruder  was  no  other  than  the  daughter  of 
Girardi—  had  been  for  a moment  overcome  by  the  intelligence  she  re* 
ceived  at  Turin  of  the  departure  of  the  emperor  for  Alexandria.  But 
it  was  fatigue  rather  than  discouragement  which  made  her  pause  ; 
and  nothing  but  the  recollection  that  an  unhappy  captive  was  depend- 
ent upon  her  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  only  wish  on  earth, 
would  have  urged  her  forward  upon  her  perilous  errand.  Without 
regard,  therefore,  to  her  weariness  or  loss  of  time,  she  signified  to 
the  guide  her  intention  of  proceeding  at  once  to  Alexandria. 

“ To  Alexandria!  ’Tis  twice  as  far  as  we  have  come  already  !” 
cried  the  man. 

“ No  matter,  we  must  set  out  again  immediately.” 

“ I,  for  my  part,  shall  not  set  out  before  to-morrow,”  replied  the 
guide  doggedly,  “and  then  only  to  return  to  Fenestrella  ; so  a 
pleasant  journey  to  you,  signora  !” 

All  the  arguments  she  could  use  were  unavailing  to  change  his 
determination.  The  man,  who  had  enveloped  himself  in  the  iron 
obstinacy  of  the  Piedmontese  character,  speedily  unsaddled  his 
horses,  and  laid  himself  down  between  them  in  the  stable  for  a 
good  night’s  rest. 

But  Teresa,  firmly  devoted  to  her  enterprise,  would  not  now  recede 
from  the  undertaking.  Having  made  up  her  mind  to  pursue  her 
journey,  she  entreated  the  landlady  of  the  inn  in  the  Dora  Grossa , 
where  she  had  put  up,  to  procure  her  the  means  of  proceeding  to 
Alexandria  without  a moment’s  delay  ; and  the  hostess  instantly  dis- 
patched her  waiters  in  various  directions  through  the  city  in  search 
of  a conveyance  ; but  all  without  success  ! From  the  Susa  gate  to 
that  of  the  Po,  from  the  Porta  Nuova  to  that  of  the  palace,  not  a 
horse,  carriage,  nor  cart,  public  or  private,  was  to  be  seen  ; all  had 
long  been  engaged,  in  consequence  of  the  approaching  solemnization 
at  Alexandria. 

Teresa  now  gave  herself  up  to  despair  ! Absorbed  in  anxious 
thought,  she  stationed  herself  with  downcast  looks  on  the  steps  of 
the  inn,  where  luckily  the  gathering  darkness  secured  her  from  rec- 
ognition by  the  inhabitants  of  her  native  city,  when  suddenly  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels  became  audible,  accompanied  by  the 
tinkling  of  mule-bells  ; and  at  the  very  door  where  she  was  standing 
there  appeared  two  powerful  mules  drawing  one  of  those  long  cara- 
vans in  use  among  travelling  merchants  ; of  which  the  boxes  closed 
by  heavy  padlocks  are  made  to  open  and  form  a movable  shop  ; but 


62 


PICCIOLA. 


the  only  accommodation  of  which  for  passengers  consists  in  a narrow 
leathern  seat  in  front,  half  under  cover  of  a small  awning  of  oil-cloth. 

The  man  and  woman,  owners  of  the  cart  and  its  merchandise,  hav- 
ing alighted,  began  to  stretch  their  arms  and  yawn  aloud  ; stamping 
with  their  feet  by  way  of  rousing  themselves  after  a long  and  heavy 
slumber.  At  length,  having  familiarly  saluted  the  hostess,  they  took 
refuge  in  the  chimney-corner,  holding  out  their  hands  and  feet  toward 
the  vine-stocks  blazing  on  the  hearth  ; and  after  ordering  the  mules 
to  be  unharnessed  and  carefully  attended  to,  they  began  to  congratu- 
late each  other  on  the  conclusion  of  their  tedious  journey,  ordered 
supper,  and  talked  of  bed. 

The  hostess  too  was  preparing  for  rest.  The  yawning  waiters 
closed  up  the  doors  and  window -shutters  ; and  poor  Teresa,  watching 
with  tearful  eyes  all  these  preparations,  thought  only  of  the  hours  that 
were  passing  away,  the  dying  flower,  and  the  despair  of  the  Count 
de  Charney. 

“A  night,  a whole  night!”  she  exclaimed;  “a  night  of  which 
every  minute  will  be  counted  by  that  unhappy  man  ; while  1 shall  be 
safe  asleep.  Nay,  even  to-morrow  it  will  perhaps  be  impossible  for 
me  to  find  a conveyance  !” 

And  she  cast  her  wistful  eyes  upon  the  two  travellers,  as  if  her  last 
hope  lay  in  their  assistance.  But  she  was  still  ignorant  of  the  road 
they  were  to  take,  or  whether  they  could  or  would  be  troubled  with 
her  company  ; and  the  poor  girl,  unaccustomed  to  find  herself  alone 
among  strangers,  still  less  among  strangers  of  such  a class,  impelled 
by  anxiety,  but  withheld  by  timidity,  advanced  a step  toward  them, 
then  paused,  mute,  trembling,  and  undecided  ; when  she  was  startled 
by  the  approach  of  a female  servant,  holding  a candle  and  a key,  who 
pointed  out  to  her  the  room  into  which  she  was  to  retire  for  the 
night.  Forced  by  this  proposition  to  take  some  immediate  step, 
Teresa  put  aside  the  arm  of  the  giannina , and  advancing  toward  the 
couple,  engaged  in  munching  their  supper,  entreated  pardon  for  the 
interruption,  and  inquired  what  road  they  were  to  take  on  quitting 
Turin. 

“ To  Alexandria,  my  pretty  maid,”  replied  the  woman,  starting  at 
the  question. 

“ To  Alexandria  ! ’Twas  then  my  guardian  angel  who  brought 
you  thither  !”  cried  Teresa,  overjoyed. 

“ I wish  he  had  picked  out  a better  road,  then,  signorina,”  cried 
the  woman,  “ for  we  are  all  but  ground  to  powder  !” 

“ But  what  do  you  want  with  us  ? How  can  we  serve  you  ?”  in- 
terrupted the  man. 

“ Urgent  business  carries  me  to  Alexandria.  Can  you  give  me  a 
seat?”  inquired  Teresa. 

“ Out  of  the  question,”  said  the  wife. 

“ I will  pay  you  handsomely  ; two  pieces  of  St.  John  the  Baptist  ; 
that  is,  ten  livres  of  France.” 


PICCIOLA. 


63 


“I  don’t  know  how  we  could  manage  it,”  observed  the  man. 
“ In  the  first  place,  the  bench  is  so  narrow  that  it  will  be  scarcely 
possible  to  sit  three  ; though  I own,  signorina,  ’tis  no  great  matter  of 
room  you  will  take  up.  In  the  next  place,  we  are  going  only  as  far 
as  the  Mercato  of  Renigano,  near  Asti,  which  is  only  half  way  to 
Alexandria.” 

“No  matter,”  cried  Teresa;  “convey  me  only  so  far  as  to  the 
gates  of  Asti.  But  we  must  set  out  this  very  night — this  very  mo- 
ment.” 

“ Impossible  ! quite  impossible  !”  exclaimed  both  husband  and 
wife  at  the  same  moment.  “We  made  no  bargain  of  our  night’s 
rest.” 

“ The  sum  shall  be  doubled,”  said  Teresa  in  a lower  voice,  “ if 
you  will  only  oblige  me.” 

The  man  and  the  woman  interchanged  looks  of  interrogation. 
“No  !”  cried  the  wife  at  last ; “we  shall  fall  ill  of  fatigue  on  the  road. 
Besides,  Losca  and  Zoppa  want  rest.  Do  you  wish  to  kill  the  poor 
mules  ?” 

“ Four  pieces,  remember  !”  murmured  the  husband.  “ Four 
pieces.” 

“ What  is  that  to  the  value  of  Losca  and  Zoppa  ?” 

“ Double  price,  recollect,  for  only  half  the  fare,  and  no  danger  to 
the  beasts.” 

“ Pho,  pho  ! a single  Venetian  sequin  is  worth  two  parpaiole  of 
Genoa.” 

Nevertheless,  the  notion  of  four  crowns  to  be  earned  so  easily  was 
not  without  its  charm  for  either  wife  or  husband,  and  at  last,  after 
further  objections  on  one  side  and  supplications  on  the  other,  the 
mules  were  brought  out  and  reharnessed.  Teresa,  enveloped  in  her 
mantle  to  protect  her  from  the  night  air,  arranged  herself  as  well  as 
she  could  on  the  bench  between  the  grumbling  couple  ; and  at  length 
they  set  off  on  their  expedition.  All  the  clocks  in  Turin  were  strik- 
ing eleven  as  they  passed  the  gate  of  the  city. 

In  her  impatience  to  arrive  and  procure  good  tidings  for  transmis- 
sion to  Fenestrella,  Teresa  would  fain  have  found  herself  carried 
away  by  the  speed  of  impetuous  coursers  toward  Alexandria.  But 
alas  ! the  vehicle  in  which  she  had  secured  a place  lumbered  heavily 
along  the  road.  The  mules  paced  steadily  along,  lifting  their  legs 
with  measured  precision,  so  as  to  put  in  motion  the  little  chime  of 
bells,  which  imparted  a still  cooler  character  to  the  nonchalance  of 
their  movements.  For  some  time,  indeed,  the  fair  traveller  took 
patience,  hoping  the  animals  would  become  gradually  excited,  or 
that  the  driver  might  urge  them  with  a touch  of  the  whip.  But 
finding  his  incitement  limited  to  a slight  clinking  of  the  tongue,  she 
at  length  took  courage  to  inform  him  that  it  was  essential  to  make  all 
speed  toward  Asti,  that  she  might  arrive  by  daybreak  at  Alexandria. 

“ Take  my  word  for  it,  my  pretty  maid,”  replied  the  man,  “ that 


64 


PICCIOLA. 


'tis  not  a whit  more  amusing  to  us  than  to  yourself  to  pass  the  night 
in  counting  the  stars.  But  the  cobbler  must  stick  to  his  last.  My 
cargo,  young  lady,  consists  of  crockery -ware,  which  I am  conveying 
for  sale  to  the  fair  of  Renigano  ; and  if  my  mules  were  to  take  to  the 
trot,  I should  have  only  potsherds  to  produce  at  the  end  of  my  journey.” 

“ Are  you  then  a crockery  merchant  ?”  exclaimed  Teresa,  in  a tone 
of  consternation. 

“ China  merchants,”  remonstrated  the  wife. 

“ Alas  ! alas  !”  exclaimed  the  disappointed  girl,  “ is  it  then  impos- 
sible  for  you  to  go  a little  faster  ?” 

“ Except  by  knocking  to  pieces  my  whole  freight.” 

“ It  is  so  important  for  me  to  arrive  in  time  at  Alexandria  !” 

“ And  for  us  to  keep  an  eye  to  our  goods.” 

As  an  act  of  concession,  however,  he  condescended  to  bestow  a 
few  additional  clickings  upon  his  beasts  ; but  the  mules  were  too 
well  broken  to  their  pace  to  risk  their  master’s  property  by  quicken- 
ing their  speed. 

Teresa  now  began  to  reproach  herself  with  inconsideration,  in  not 
having  acquainted  herself  with  the  length  of  time  necessarjr  to  reach 
Asti,  or  personally  attempted  to  discover  in  Turin  some  more  expe- 
ditious mode  of  conveyance.  But  she  had  nothing  now  left  for  it 
but  patience  ! The  vehicle  jogged  on  at  its  accustomed  rate,  Losca 
and  Zoppa  soon  managed  to  take  the  soft  sides  of  the  road,  avoiding 
the  rough  jumbling  of  the  pavement ; and  at  length  the  merchant 
and  his  wife,  after  a few  mutual  consultations  respecting  their  chance 
of  success  at  the  fair  of  Renigano,  relapsed  into  silence  ; in  the  midst 
of  which,  soothed  by  the  darkness,  oppressed  by  the  cold,  and  lulled 
by  the  monotonous  tinkling  of  the  mule-bells,  Teresa  was  overpow- 
ered with  drowsiness.  Her  head,  which  wandered  in  search  of  a 
resting-place  from  the  shoulder  of  the  driver  to  that  of  his  wife,  at 
length  inclined  heavily  on  her  own  bosom. 

“ Lean  upon  me,  my  poor  child,  and  happy  dreams  to  you  !”  said 
the  man  in  a compassionate  tone  ; and  having  accepted  his  offer,  the 
overwearied  Teresa  was  soon  in  a deep  sleep. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  daylight  was  shining  brightly 
upon  her  ! Startled  to  find  herself  in  the  open  air,  on  the  high  road, 
she  strove  to  recall  her  bewildered  recollections  ; and  on  attaining 
perfect  consciousness,  perceived  with  horror  that  the  vehicle  was 
standing  still,  and  appeared  to  have  been  some  time  stationary.  The 
merchant,  his  wife,  the  very  mules,  were  fast  asleep  ; not  the  slightest 
sound  proceeded  from  the  chime  of  bells. 

Teresa  now  perceived  at  some  distance  on  the  road  they  had  been 
traversing,  the  pinnacles  of  several  steeples  ; and  through  the  fan- 
tastic grouping  of  the  morning  mists  fancied  she  could  discern  the 
heights  of  the  Superga,  the  Chateau  of  Mille  Fiori,  the  Vigna  della 
Regina,  the  Church  of  the  Capuchins,  all  the  rich  adornments  of  tliq 
noble  hills  overhanging  Turin. 


PICCIOLA.  65 

“ Merciful  heaven  !”  vociferated  the  poor  girl,  “ we  have  scarcely 
got  beyond  the  suburbs  !” 

Roused  by  this  exclamation,  the  driver  rubbed  his  eyes  and  has- 
tened to  reassure  her.  “We  are  approaching  Asti,”  said  he.'  “ The 
steeples  you  see  behind  you  are  those  of  Renigano.  No  cause  to 
find  fault  with  Losca  and  Zoppa  ; they  can  only  just  have  begun 
their  nap.  Poor  beasts  ! they  have  earned  their  rest  hardly. 
Heaven  send  they  may  not  have  profited  by  mine,  to  make  a trot  of 
it.”  Teresa  smiled.  “ Gee  ! — away  with  you,  jades  !”  he  con- 
tinued, with  a crack  of  the  whip  which  awoke  both  his  wife  and  the 
mules.  And  soon  afterward,  at  the  gates  of  Asti,  the  worthy  china- 
man  took  leave  of  his  passenger,  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  after 
signing  the  cross  over  the  twenty  livres  he  received  for  her  fare, 
turned  straight  round  with  his  mules,  and  made  off  deliberately  for 
Renigano. 

Half  of  her  way  to  Alexandria  was  thus  accomplished  ; but  alas  ! 
it  was  now  scarcely  possible  to  arrive  in  time  for  the  levee  of  the 
emperor.  “Yet  no  doubt  an  emperor  must  be  late  in  rising  !” 
thought  Teresa  ; and  oh  ! how  she  longed  to  thrust  below  the  horizon 
again  the  sun  which  was  just  making  its  importunate  appearance  ! 
Expecting  that  everything  around  her  would  bear  tokens  of  her  own 
agitation,  she  fancied  the  whole  population  of  Asti  must  be  already 
astir,  in  preparation  for  a journey  to  Alexandria  ; and  that,  amid  the 
confusion  of  carriages  and  carts  about  to  take  the  road,  it  would  be 
easy  to  secure  a place  in  some  public  conveyance. 

What,  therefore,  was  her  astonishment  on  entering  the  town  to  find 
the  streets  still  silent  and  deserted,  and  the  sun  scarcely  yet  high 
enough  to  shine  on  more  than  the  roofs  of  the  highest  houses  and  the 
dome  of  the  church  ! It  occurred  to  her  at  that  moment  that  one  of  her 
maternal  relations  resided  at  Asti,  who  might  render  her  assistance  ; 
and  perceiving  through  the  ground-floor  window  of  a mean-looking 
house  the  red  glimmering  of  a fire,  she  knocked  and  ventured  to 
inquire  her  way  to  the  abode  of  her  kinsman.  A harsh  voice  answered 
her  through  the  window  that,  for  the  last  three  months,  the  individ- 
ual in  question  had  been  residing  at  his  country  house  at  Monber- 
cello  ; and  thus  disappointed,  and  alone  in  the  solitary  streets  of  a 
strange  town,  Teresa  began  to  feel  terrified  and  uneasy.  To  reani- 
mate her  courage  she  turned  toward  a Madonna,  before  which,  in  an 
adjoining  niche,  a lamp  was  burning,  and  breathed  her  morning 
prayer.  Scarcely  had  she  concluded  her  orisons  when  she  was 
startled  by  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  and  a man  soon  made 
his  appearance. 

“ Can  you  tell  me  of  a conveyance  to  Alexandria  ?”  said  she  civilly, 
accosting  the  stranger. 

“ Too  late,  my  pretty  one  ; every  cart  and  carriage  has  been  be- 
spoken this  week  past,”  he  replied,  and  hastened  on  his  way. 

A second  man  came  by,  to  whom  Teresa  ventured  to  address  the 


66 


PICCIOLA. 


same  inquiry.  But  this  time  the  answer  was  delivered  in  a harsh 
and  reproving  tone. 

“You  want  to  be  running  after  the  French,  then,  razza  mala • 
delta  V'  cried  he,  making  off  after  his  companion. 

Teresa  stood  silent  and  intimidated  at  the  accusation.  At  last,  per- 
ceiving a young  workman  singing  as  he  proceeded  gayly  to  his  busi- 
ness, she  ventured  to  renew  her  inquiries. 

“ Aha,  signorina  !”  cried  he,  in  a tone  of  bantering,  “you  must 
needs  make  one  in  the  battle,  eh  ? But  there  will  be  little  room  left 
yonder  for  pretty  damsels  ; better  stay  with  us  here  at  Asti.  ’Tis  a 
fete  to*day.  The  dancing  will  begin  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
drudiballerini  will  fall  to  breaking  each  other’s  heads  to  have  you 
for  a partner.  Faith,  you  are  worth  the  trouble  of  a fight ! Eh  ! 
what  say  you  to  a skirmish  in  your  honor  ?” 

And  approaching  Teresa  Girardi,  he  was  about  to  throw  his  arm 
round  her  waist  ; but,  startled  by  her  indignant  glance  and  exclama- 
tion, desisted,  and  resumed  his  song  and  his  occupation. 

A fourth,  a fifth,  now  traversed  the  street,  but  the  poor  girl  no  long- 
er hazarded  an  inquiry,  but  kept  watching  every  opening  door  and 
peeping  into  every  courtyard,  in  hopes  to  find  some  carriage  in  wait- 
ing. At  length,  by  especial  favor,  she  managed  to  obtain  a place  as 
far  as  Annone.  Between  Annone  and  Felizano,  between  Felizano 
and  Alexandria,  she  was  perplexed  by  a thousand  further  difficul- 
ties. But  with  courage  and  perseverance,  all  were  at  length  sur- 
mounted, and  she  arrived  happily  at  Alexandria.  As  she  anticipated, 
the  emperor  had  already  taken  his  departure  for  Marengo  ; and, 
without  pausing  a moment  for  deliberation,  she  followed  the  crowd 
which  was  pouring  from  the  suburbs  along  the  road  toward  the  field 
of  battle. 

Hurried  on  with  the  multitude,  pressed  and  jostled  on  all  sides, 
watching  eagerly  for  openings  in  the  crowd,  skirting  the  outer- 
most edges  of  the  road,  Teresa  neglected  no  opportunity  of  push- 
ing forward.  Undisturbed  by  the  sound  of  the  trumpets,  the  sports 
of  the  merry-andrews,  or  the  discourses  of  the  monks,  she  pursued  her 
way  in  the  midst  of  the  laughing,  yelling,  shouting  populace,  which 
went  leaping  on  in  the  heat  and  dust — a poor,  solitary  stranger, 
apart  from  the  sports  and  the  joys  of  the  day,  her  countenance  anx- 
ious, her  eye  haggard,  and  raising  her  hand  at  intervals  to  wipe  away 
the  dew  from  her  weary  brows. 

But  the  whole  force  and  fortitude  of  Teresa’s  mind  were  devoted 
to  her  progress.  She  has  scarcely  even  found  a moment  for  the  con- 
templation of  the  further  means  to  be  adopted.  But  a halt  being 
suddenly  imposed  upon  the  crowd  on  reaching  the  outskirts  of  the 
field,  she  began  to  reflect  on  the  uneasiness  the  .prolongation  of  her 
absence  would  cause  to  her  father  (since  the  guide  who  had  deserted 
her  at  Turin  would  not  be  permitted  to  enter  the  prison).  She 
thought  of  Charney  accusing  his  messenger  of  neglect  and  indiffer- 


PICCIOLA.  6? 

ence,  then  felt  for  the  petition  in  her  bosom,  apprehensive  that  by 
some  unlucky  chance  it  might  have  escaped  her. 

At  the  idea  of  her  father  grieving  over  the  unwonted  absence  of  his 
child,  tears  rushed  into  the  eyes  of  Teresa  ; and  it  was  from  a rev- 
erie produced  by  these  painful  emotions  that  she  was  recalled  to 
herself  by  the  cries  of  joy  bursting  from  the  surrounding  multitude. 
An  open  space  had  been  formed  just  beside  the  spot  where  she  was 
resting,  around  which  the  crowd  seemed  circling  ; and  the  moment 
Teresa  turned  her  head  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  tumult,  her 
hands  were  seized,  and  in  spite  of  her  resistance,  her  depression,  her 
fatigue,  she  found  herself  compelled  to  take  part  in  a famndola,  which 
went  whirling  along  the  road,  recruiting  all  the  pretty  girls  and 
uprightly  lads  who  could  be  involved  in  the  diversion. 

Vexatious  as  was  the  interruption,  Teresa  at  length  found  means 
to  disengage  herself  from  "such  unsatisfactory  society  ; and  having 
contrived  by  a painful  elfort  to  push  her  way  through  the  crowd,  she 
At  length  obtained  a glimpse  of  the  vast  plain  glittering  with  troops  ; 
and  her  eyes,  having  wandered  for  some  minutes  over  the  splendid 
army,  paused  upon  the  little  hillock  occupied  by  the  imperial  court. 
At  the  sight  of  the  throne,  the  aim  and  end  of  her  perilous  journey, 
Teresa’s  heart  leaped  for  joy  ; her  courage  returned,  her  strength 
seemed  renewed.  All  her  preceding  cares  were  forgotten.  But  how 
to  attain  the  wished-for  spot  ? How  to  traverse  those  battalions  of 
men  and  horses  ?\  There  was  madness  in  the  very  project  ! 

But  that  which  at  first  sight  presented  an  obstacle  soon  appeared 
to  further  her  intentions.  The  foremost  ranks  of  the  crowd  pouring 
in  torrents  from  Alexandria,  having  deployed  to  the  right  and  left  on 
reaching  the  plain,  were  gradually  gaining  the  banks  of  the  Tanaro 
and  the  Bormida,  where,  at  one  moment,  they  pushed  on  so  impet- 
uously as  to  seem  on  the  point  of  taking  possession  of  the  field  of 
battle.  A small  body  of  cavalry  instantly  galloped  toward  the  spot, 
waving  their  naked  sabres,  and  by  the  plunging  of  their  chargers  caus- 
ing the  terrified  crowd  to  return  to  the  limits  assigned  them.  The 
intruders  evacuated  the  territory  as  rapidly  as  they  had  gained  it, 
with  the  exception  of  a single  individual  : that  individual  was  Teresa 
Girardi  ! 

In  an  adjacent  hollow  of  the  plain,  surrounded  by  a strong  quick- 
set  hedge  and  sheltered  by  a small  thicket  of  trees,  flowed  a spring  of 
limpid  water,  toward  which,  thrust  onward  by  the  crowd  of  spec- 
tators, the  poor  girl,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  throne  in  the 
distance,  found  herself  irresistibly  impelled.  Apprehensive  every 
moment  of  being  crushed  in  the  throng,  she  seized  in  her  arms  the 
trunk  of  the  nearest  poplar  tree,  and  closing  her  eyes,  like  a child 
who  fancies  the  danger  has  ceased  to  exist  which  it  is  not  obliged  to 
look  upon,  remained  motionless,  her  hearing  confused  by  the  rustling 
of  the  surrounding  foliage.  The  advance  and  retreat  of  the  mob 
was,  in  fact,  so  instantaneous  that  when  Teresa  reopened  her  eye* 


68 


PICCIOLA. 


she  was  quite  alone,  separated  from  the  troops  by  the  hedge  and 
thicket,  and  from  the  crowd  by  a column  of  dust  produced  by  the 
last  detachment  of  fugitives.  Throwing  herself  at  once  into  the  little 
copse,  she  found  herself  in  the  centre  of  about  twenty  poplar  and 
aspen  trees  overshadowing  a crystal  spring,  welling  out  of  the 
ground  over  a bed  of  ivy,  moss,  and  celandine,  till,  bubbling  onward 
in  a silver  thread,  it  gradually  formed  a brook  capable  of  traversing 
the  plain,  over  which  its  course  was  defined  by  painted  tufts  of  blue 
forget-me-not  and  the  clusters  of  the  white  ranunculus.  The  refresh- 
ing exhalations  of  the  shady  spot  assisted  to  restore  the  self-posses- 
sion and  strength  of  the  exhausted  girl.  Teresa  felt  as  though  she 
had  reached  an  oasis  of  verdure  in  the  desert,  sheltered  from  dust  and 
heat  and  disturbance. 

Meanwhile  the  plain  has  become  suddenly  quiet ; she  hears  neither 
the  word  of  command,  the  huzza  of  the  crowd,  nor  the  neighing  of 
the  horses.  All  she  can  discern  is  a singular  movement  overhead, 
and  looking  up,  Teresa  perceives  every  bough  and  spray  of  the  trees 
to  be  covered  with  flights  of  sparrows,  driven  to  shelter  from  all 
quarters  of  the  plain  by  the  alarming  movement  of  the  troops  and 
the  incursions  of  the  crowd.  The  poor  birds,  like  the  poor  girl  con- 
templating them,  have  taken  refuge  in  that  verdant  solitude,  their 
little  wings  and  throats  apparently  paralyzed  by  affright  ; for  not  a 
sound  breaks  from  the  band  of  feathered  fugitives.  Even  on  the  ad- 
vance of  a brigade  of  cavalry  toward  the  thicket,  accompanied  hy  the 
braying  of  trumpets,  not  a bird  is  seen  to  stir.  They  appear  to  wait 
anxiously  for  the  result,  while  a similar  feeling  prompts  Girardi’s 
daughter  to  look  out  through  the  foliage  upon  the  field. 

Her  eyes  are  quickly  attracted  by  files  of  troops,  which  appear  to 
have  cut  off  all  communication  between  the  thicket  and  the  road. 

“ After  all/’  thought  the  trembling  Teresa,  “ it  is  but  a sham  fight 
that  is  about  to  take  place  ; and  if  I have  been  imprudent  in  ven- 
turing hither,  the  Almighty,  who  knows  the  innocence  of  my  heart, 
will  keep  me  in  time  of  trouble  !” 

And  directing  her  attention  through  the  opposite  extremity  of  the 
thicket,  she  discerns,  at  the  distance  of  about  three  hundred  paces, 
the  throne  of  Josephine  and  Napoleon.  The  space  between  is  occu- 
pied by  the  manoeuvres  of  the  soldiers,  but  every  now  and  then  the 
ground  is  sufficiently  cleared  to  admit  of  passing.  Teresa  now  takes 
courage  ! — she  feels  that  a decisive  moment  is  at  hand.  Having 
opened  a way  through  the  hedge,  she  is  about  to  advance,  when  the 
disorder  of  her  toilet,  suddenly  occurring  to  her  mind,  brings  blushes 
into  her  cheeks.  Her  tresses,  unbraided  and  dishevelled,  are  floating 
over  her  shoulders  ; her  hands,  her  face,  her  person,  are  disfigured 
with  dust.  To  present  herself  in  such  a condition  before  the  sover- 
eigns of  Italy  and  France  were  perhaps  to  insure  her  rejection  and 
the  failure  of  her  anxious  mission. 

Re-entering  the  thicket,  therefore,  and  drawing  near  to  the  spring. 


PICCIOLA. 


69 


she  unties  her  large  Leghorn  hat,  shakes  out  and  smooths  down  her 
raven  hair,  braids  up  the  flowing  tresses,  bathes  her  hands  and  face  ; 
and,  having  completed  her  morning  toilet,  breathes  a prayer  to  Hea 
ven  for  its  blessing  upon  the  merciful  purpose  which  has  cast  her, 
thus  defenceless,  into  the  ranks  of  an  army. 

While  watching  for  an  auspicious  moment  to  recommence  her  course, 
the  stunning  detonations  of  the  cannon  roar,  from  twenty  different 
points,  into  her  ears.  The  ground  seems  to  tremble  under  her  feet ; 
and  while  the  poor  girl  stands  motionless  with  consternation,  the 
scared  birds,  fluttering  from  the  trees  above,  with  discordant  cries 
and  bewildered  ’wings,  make  off  for  the  woods  of  Yalpedo  and  Vo- 
ghera. 

The  fight  has  begun  ! Teresa,  deafened  by  the  roar  of  artillery 
and  the  universal  clamor,  stands  transfixed  gazing  toward  the 
throne,  which  is  sometimes  concealed  from  her  by  clouds  of  smoke, 
sometimes  by  a screen  of  lances  or  bayonets. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  during  which  every  idea  seemed  to 
abandon  her  mind  but  that  of  indescribable  terror,  the  energy  of  her 
soul  resumed  its  force.  She  examined,  with  greater  composure,  the 
obstacles  with  which  she  is  beset,  and  decided  that  it  may  still  be 
possible  to  attain  the  imperial  throne.  Two  columns  of  infantry  pro- 
longed into  a double  line,  to  which  the  flanks  of  the  thicket  form  a 
centre,  were  beginning  to  engage  in  an  animated  fire  upon  each  other. 
Under  cover  of  the  clouds  of  smoke  she  trusted  to  make  her  way  be- 
tween them  unobserved.  Still,  however.  Teresa  trembled  at  the  at- 
tempt; when  a troop  of  hussars,  burning  with  thirst,  suddenly  in- 
vaded her  asylum,  and  the  maiden  hesitated  no  longer.  Her  courage 
was  roused  the  moment  her  modesty  took  the  alarm.  She  rushed 
forth  at  once  between  two  columns  of  infantry,  and  when  the  smoke 
began  to  subside,  the  soldiers  raised  a cry  of  astonishment  on  per 
ceiving,  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  white  dress  and  straw  hat  of  a 
young  girl,  a young  and  pretty  Piedmontese,  whom  each  made  it  his 
immediate  business  to  capture. 

At  that  moment  a squadron  of  cuirassiers  was  galloping  up  to  re- 
inforce one  of  the  lines,  the  captain  of  which  was  on  the  point  of 
trampling  down  the  unfortunate  Teresa  ; but,  pulling  up  his  horse  in 
time,  he  gave  her  in  charge  to  two  soldiers  of  the  line  ; not,  however, 
without  a few  oaths  and  great  wonder  at  such  an  apparition  on  the 
field  of  battle. 

One  of  the  two  cuirassiers  deputed  to  escort  her  to  quarters 
quickly  raised  her  to  liis  saddle,  and  it  was  thus  she  was  conveyed 
to  the  rear  of  the  hillock,  where  a few  ladies  belonging  to  the  suite 
of  the  empress  were  stationed,  accompanied  by  an  aide-de-camp  and 
the  corps  diplomatique  of  the  Italian  deputations. 

Teresa  now  fancied  that  her  enterprise  was  accomplished.  She 
had  surmounted  too  many  difficulties  to  be  discouraged  by  the  few 
remaining  ; and  when  on  her  demand  to  be  admitted  to  the  emperor 


70 


P1CC10LA. 


she  was  informed  that  he  was  on  the  field  at  the  head  of  the  troops, 
she  entreated  an  audience  of  the  empress.  But  this  request  appeared 
no  less  inadmissible  than  the  other.  To  get  rid  of  her  importunities 
the  bystanders  had  recourse  to  intimidation,  and  Teresa’s  courage 
rose  against  their  efforts.  They  insisted  that  she  should  at  least  wait 
the  conclusion  of  the  evolutions,  and  were  astonished  to  find  her  per- 
sist in  forcing  her  way  toward  the  throne.  Detained  and  threatened, 
her  struggles  became  the  more  vehement.  It  was  then  that,  rais- 
ing her  voice  in  self-defence,  its  piteous  accents  reached  the  ear  of  Jo- 
sephine, to  which  the  voice  of  a female  in  distress  and  appealing  to 
her  protection  was  never  known  to  be  addressed  in  vain. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Scarcely  were  the  commands  of  the  empress  issued  that  no  fur- 
ther obstruction  should  be  offered  to  the  young  stranger,  when  the 
brilliant  crowd  opened  to  yield  a passage  to  Teresa  Girardi,  who  ap- 
peared in  the  midst  of  the  throng,  in  a suppliant  attitude,  as  if 
scarcely  aware  of  being  released  from  the  detention  of  her  captors. 

But  on  a sign  from  Josephine— a gracious  sign,  instantly  recog- 
nized by  those  around  as  a token  of  indulgence— the  young  Piedmont- 
ese was  set  at  liberty  ; and  on  finding  herself  free,  Teresa  rushed  to 
the  foot  of  the  throne,  breathless  with  agitation,  and  bending  low  be- 
fore the  empress  proceeded  to  unfold  a handkerchief  which  she  had 
taken  from  her  bosom. 

“ A poor  prisoner,  madam,”  said  she,  “ implores  the  clemency  of 
your  majesty.”  But  with  every  disposition  to  indulgence,  it  was 
impossible  for  the  empress  to  divine  the  meaning  of  the  strange-look- 
ing  handkerchief  which  Teresa  Girardi,  sinking  on  one  knee,  ten- 
dered to  her  hands. 

“ Have  you  a petition  to  present  to  me  ?”  demanded  Josephine  at 
last  of  the  trembling  girl,  in  a tone  of  encouragement. 

“ This,  madam,  is  a petition  ; this  is  the  memorial  of  an  unfortu- 
nate captive,”  persisted  Teresa,  still  holding  up  the  handkerchief. 
But  tears  of  terror  and  anxiety,  flowing  down  her  cheeks,  almost 
concealed  the  smile  which  the  gracious  atfability  of  the  empress  had 
for  a moment  called  into  existence. 

“ Rise,  my  poor  girl,  rise  !”  said  Josephine,  in  a tone  of  compas- 
sion. “You  appear  deeply  interested  in  the  welfare  of  the  peti- 
tioner.” 

Teresa  blushed,  and  hung  down  her  head.  “I  have  never  even 
spoken  to  him,  madam,”  she  replied  but  he  is  so  deserving  of 
pity  ! If  your  majesty  would  deign  to  read  the  statement  of  his  mis- 
fortunes— ” 


PICCIOLA. 


71 


Josephine  now  unfolded  the  handkerchief,  touched  to  the  heart  by 
the  evidence  of  misery  and  destitution  conveyed  in  such  a substitute 
for  writing-paper.  Pausing,  however,  after  she  had  perused  the  first 
line  of  the  petition,  she  exclaimed,  “ But  this  is  addressed  to  the  em- 
peror !” 

“And  are  you  not  his  wife?”  cried  Teresa.  “Deign,  deign  to 
read  on  ! Every  moment  is  of  consequence.  Indeed  there  is  no 
time  to  be  lost ! ’ ’ 

The  fight  was  now  at  the  hottest.  The  Hungarian  column, 
though  exposed  to  the  severe  fire  of  Marmont’s  artillery,  was  formid- 
able in  its  movements  ; Zach  and  Desaix  were  face  to  face,  and  the 
result  of  their  encounter  was  to  decide  the  destinies  of  the  battle. 
The  cannonade  became  general ; the  field  seemed  to  vomit  flames  and 
smoke  ; while  the  clamor  of  the  soldiers,  uniting  with  the  clang  of 
arms  and  call  of  trumpets,  agitated  the  air  like  a tempest.  And  it 
was  while  all  this  was  proceeding  around  her  that  the  empress  at- 
tempted to  give  her  attention  to  the  following  lines  : 

“ Sire  : The  removal  of  two  stones  from  the  pavement  of  the 
court  of  my  prison  will  scarcely  shake  the  foundation  of  your  em- 
pire ; and  such  is  the  favor  I presume  to  ask  of  your  majesty.  It  is 
not  for  myself  I appeal  to  your  protection.  But  in  the  stony  desert 
in  which  I am  expiating  my  offences  against  your  government,  a sin- 
gle living  thing  lihs  solaced  my  sufferings  and  shed  a charm  over  my 
gloomy  existence ! A plant,  a flower  springing  spontaneously 
among  the  stones  of  Fenestrella,  is  the  object  of  my  solicitude.  Let 
not  your  majesty  accuse  me  of  folly — of  madness  ; it  needs  to  have 
been  a prisoner  to  appreciate  the  value  of  such  a friend.  To  this 
poor  flower  am  I indebted  for  discoveries  which  have  dispelled  the 
mists  of  error  from  my  eyes,  for  my  restoration  to  reason,  for  my 
peace  of  mind,  nay,  for  my  very  life  ! It  is  dear  to  me,  sire,  as  glory 
to  y ourself. 

“ Yet  at  this  moment  my  precious  plant  is  perishing  before  my 
eyes  for  want  of  a little  space  for  the  expansion  of  its  roots  ; and  the 
commandant  of  Fenestrella  would  fain  submit  to  the  Governor  of 
Turin  my  petition  for  the  removal  of  the  two  miserable  stones  that 
impede  its  growth.  By  the  time  that  wisdom  has  decided  the  ques- 
tion the  plant  will  be  dead  ; and  it  is  therefore  to  your  compassion, 
sire,  I appeal  for  the  preservation  of  my  plant.  Issue  orders  that 
may  yet  preserve  it  from  destruction,  and  myself  from  despair — I im- 
plore it  on  my  bended  knees— and  should  you  deign  to  favor  my 
suit,  the  benefit  vouchsafed  by  your  majesty  shall  be  recorded  in  the 
inmost  depths  of  my  heart  ! 

“ I admit,  sire,  that  this  poor  plant  has  softened  the  vengeance 
doomed  by  your  majesty  to  fall  on  my  devoted  head,  but  it  has  also 
subdued  my  pride  and  cast  me  a suppliant  at  your  feet.  From  the 
height  of  your  double  throne,  deign  therefore  to  extend  a pitying 
M .c. — 12 


72 


PICCIOLA. 


glance  toward  us.  It  is  not  for  your  majesty  to  appreciate  the 
power  exercised  by  solitary  confinement  over  even  the  strongest 
heart,  the  most  iron  fortitude.  I do  not  complain  of  my  captivity  ; I 
support  my  sentence  with  resignation.  Be  its  duration  as  that  of  my 
own  life  ; but  spare,  oh,  spare  my  plant ! 

“ The  favor  I thus  presume  to  implore  must  be  conceded,  sire,  on 
the  spot,  without  the  delay  of  a single  hour  ! On  the  brow  of  the 
human  criminal,  justice  may  hold  her  sword  suspended,  in  order  to 
enhance  the  after-sentence  of  pardon  ; but  nature’s  laws  are  more 
prompt  in  their  operation.  Delay  but  a single  day,  and  even  the 
mighty  power  of  your  majesty  will  be  unavailing  to  further  the  peti- 
tion of  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella.  Charney.  ” 

At  that  instant  a sudden  discharge  of  artillery  seemed  to  rend 
asunder  the  atmosphere,  and  immediately  the  thick  smoke,  cut  into 
circles  and  lozenges  by  the  thousand  lightnings  of  the  discharge, 
seemed  to  cover  the  field  with  a net-work  of  light  and  shade.  But 
on  the  cessation  of  the  firing,  the  curtain  of  smoke  seemed  gradually 
drawn  aside,  and  a brilliant  spectacle  was  given  to  view,  sparkling 
under  the  radiance  of  the  sun — even  that  noble  charge  in  the  original 
of  which  Desaix  lost  his  life.  Zach  and  his  Hungarians,  repulsed  in 
front  by  Bondet,  harassed  on  the  left  flank  by  the  cavalry  of  Keller- 
mann,  were  already  thrown  into  disorder  ; after  which  the  intrepid 
consul,  re-establishing  his  line  of  battle  from  Castel  Ceriolo  to  St. 
Julian,  resumed  the  offensive,  overthrew  the  imperialists  at  every 
point,  and  forced  Melas  to  a speedy  retreat. 

This  sudden  change  of  position,  these  grand  movements  of  the 
army,  this  flux  and  reflux  of  the  human  tide,  at  the  command  of  a 
single  voice,  the  voice  of  a chief,  motionless  and  calm  in  the  midst  of 
the  general  disorder,  might  have  sufficed  to  produce  an  impression  on 
the  coldest  imagination.  From  the  groups  surrounding  Ihe  throne, 
accordingly,  burst  cries  of  triumph  and  exulting  acclamations  ; when 
the  empress,  startled  by  the  contrast  afforded  by  these  “ vivats”  to 
the  hoarse  uproar  of  the  battle-field,  was  instantly  roused  from  her 
reverie  to  a sense  of  what  was  passing  around  her.  For  to  all  those 
brilliant  manoeuvres  and  imposing  spectacles  the  future  queen  of 
Italy  had  remained  insensible,  her  feelings  and  looks  alike  preoccu- 
pied by  the  extraordinary  memorial  that  still  fluttered  in  her  hand. 

Teresa  Girardi,  meanwhile,  attentive  to  every  gesture  of  the  em- 
press, felt  instantaneously  reassured  by  the  soft  smile  of  sympathy 
which  overspread  the  countenance  of  Josephine  while  perusing  the 
petition.  With  a beating  heart  she  stooped  to  imprint  a grateful 
kiss  on  the  hand  extended  toward  her — a hand  how  puissant  amid  all 
ils  fragile  fairness,  for  on  its  slender  finger  glittered  the  nuptial  ring 
of  Napoleon  ! 

Dismissed  by  this  gracious  movement  from  the  presence  of  tht 
empress,  Teresa  now  hastened  toward  the  women’s  quarters,  and 


PICCIOLA. 


73 


as  soon  as  the  field  of  Marengo  was  cleared  of  its  multitudes,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  nearest  chapel,  to  tender  to  her  sovereign  protectress, 
the  Holy  Virgin,  an  offering  of  prayer  and  tears,  the  token  of  her 
heart-felt  gratitude  ; for  in  the  condescension  of  Josephine  she  fan- 
cied she  had  obtained  a pledge  for  the  eventual  fulfilment  of  her 
wishes. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  sympathy  of  the  empress  queen  had  been,  in  fact,  warmly 
excited  by  the  memorial  of  the  captive  of  Fenestrella.  Every  word 
of  the  petition  conveyed  the  most  touching  appeal  to  her  feelings. 
Josephine  herself  was  an  almost  idolatrous  lover  of  flowers,  as  the 
permanent  advantages  derived  in  France  from  her  liberal  encourage- 
ment of  botanical  science  and  patronage  of  its  professors  continue 
to  attest.  Escaping  from  the  cares  and  splendors  of  sovereignty, 
often  did  the  empress  recede  from  the  courtier  throng  to  watch  the 
expansion  of  some  rare  exotic,  in  her  fine  conservatories  at  Malmai- 
son.  There  was  the  favorite  empire  of  Josephine.  She  loved  the 
imperial  purple  of  the  rich  cactus,  at  that  period  a splendid  novelty 
to  European  eyes,  better  than  the  hues  of  the  rich  mantle  adorning 
her  throne  ; and  the  delicate  fragrance  of  her  clustering  magnolias 
proved  more  intoxicating  than  the  soothing  but  fatal  breath  of  courtly 
adulation.  At  Malmaison  she  reigned  despotic  over  thousands  of 
beauteous  subjects,  collected  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe.  She 
knew  them  face  by  face,  name  by  name  ; was  fond  of  disposing 
them  in  classes,  castes,  or  regiments  ; and  when  some  fresh  subject 
presented  itself  for  the  first  "time  at  her  levee,  was  able  to  interro- 
gate the  new-comer  so  as  to  ascertain  his  family  and  connections, 
and  assign  him  an  appropriate  station  in  the  community  of  which 
every  brigade  had  its  banner,  and  every  banner  a fitting  standard- 
bearer. 

Following  the  example  of  Napoleon,  she  respected  the  laws  and 
customs  of  those  she  rendered  tributary.  Plants  of  all  countries 
found  their  native  soil  and  climate  restored  to  them  by  her  provi- 
dence. Malmaison  was  a world  in  miniature,  within  whose  circum- 
scribed limits  were  to  be  found  rocks  and  savannas,  the  soil  of  vir- 
gin forests  and  the  sand  of  the  desert,  banks  of  marl  or  clay,  lakes, 
cascades,  and  strands  liable  to  inundation.  From  the  heat  of  a 
tropical  climate  you  might  fly  to  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  tem- 
perate zone  ; and  in  these  varied  specimens  of  atmosphere  and  soil 
flourished,  side  by  side,  the  various  races  of  vegetative  kind,  divided 
only  by  green  edges  or  an  intrenchment  of  glass  windows. 

When  Josephine  held  her  field-days  at  Malmaison,  the  review  was 
indeed  calculated  to  excite  the  tenderest  associations.  First  in  the 
ranks  was  the  hydrangea,  which  had  recently  borrowed  from  her 


u 


riCCIOLA. 


charming  daughter  its  French  name  of  Hortensia.  Glory  too  found 
its  reminiscences  there  as  well  as  maternal  affection.  Following  the 
victories  of  Bonaparte,  she  contrived  to  reap  her  share  in  the  plunder 
of  conquered  countries,  and  Italy  and  Egypt  paid  tribute  to  her  tri- 
umphant parterres.  Blooming  in  resplendent  union  at  Malmaison 
were  the  soldanella  of  the  Alps,  the  violet  of  Parma,  the  adonis  of 
Castiglione,  the  carnation  of  Lodi,  the  willow  and  plane  of  Syria, 
the  cross  of  Malta,  the  water-lily  of  the  Nile,  the  hibiscus  of  Pales- 
tine, the  rose  of  Damietta.  Such  were  the  conquests  of  Josephine  ; 
and  of  those,  at  least,  France  still  retains  the  benefits. 

But  even  in  the  midst  of  these  treasures  Josephine  still  cultivated, 
by  predilection,  a plant  reminding  her  of  her  days  of  happy  child, 
hood — that  beautiful  jasmine  of  Martinique,  whose  seeds,  gathered 
and  resown  by  her  own  hands,  served  to  bring  to  her  recollection 
not  only  the  sports  of  girlhood  and  the  roof  of  her  fathers,  but  her 
earliest  home  of  wedded  love. 

With  such  pursuits  and  attachments,  how  could  she  fail  to  appre- 
ciate the  passion  of  the  prisoner  for  his  flower — bis  only  flower,  his 
only  companion  ! The  widow  of  Beauharnais  was  not  always  the 
happy  and  prosperous  inmate  of  a consular  or  imperial  palace.  Jo- 
sephine has  herself  tasted  the  bitterness  of  captivity  ; and  the  lesson 
is  not  thrown  away. 

Nor  has  she  altogether  forgotten  the  brilliant,  successful,  but  proud 
and  insouciant  Count  de  Charney,  formerly  so  contemptuous  amid 
the  pleasures  of  the  world  and  so  incredulous  in  the  existence  of  hu- 
man affections.  To  what  is  she  to  attribute  the  singular  change  in 
his  style  and  temper  ? What  influence  has  sufficed  to  soften  that 
haughty  character  ? He,  who  once  refused  the  homage  of  his  knee 
to  the  Most  High,  now  kneels  to  a human  throne  to  supplicate  in 
utmost  humility  for  the  preservation  of  a plant ! 

“ The  flower  which  has  wrought  so  great  a miracle,”  thought  the 
empress,  with  a smile,  “ deserves  to  be  preserved  from  destruction 
and  eager  to  accomplish  her  benevolent  purpose,  she  grew  impatient 
of  the  protraction  of  the  fight,  and  would  fain  have  put  an  end  to 
the  last  evolutions  in  order  to  hasten  her  measures  in  favor  of  her 
petitioner. 

The  moment  Napoleon,  surrounded  by  his  generals,  made  his  re- 
appearance, exhausted  by  his  exertions,  and  doubtless  expecting  com- 
pliments from  her  lips,  the  empress  presented  the  handkerchief  to  his 
astonished  eyes,  exclaiming,  “ An  order  from  your  hand,  sire  ; an 
order  for  the  commandant  of  Fenestrella  ! and  an  express  to  dispatch 
it  to  the  fortress  !” 

In  the  earnestness  of  her  purpose,  her  voice  assumed  an  imperial 
tone,  and  her  eyes  an  expression  of  impatience,  as  if  some  new  con- 
quest were  within  reach,  and  it  was  her  turn  to  assume  command 
and  authority. 

But  after  surveying  her  from  head  to  foot  with  an  air  of  surprise 


PICCIOLA. 


75 


and  dissatisfaction,  the  emperor  turned  on  liis  heel  and  passed  on 
without  a word.  As  if  still  reviewing  his  troops,  he  appeared  only 
to  be  finishing  his  inspection  by  the  last  individual  of  the  brigade. 

Impelled  by  the  force  of  habit,  he  next  proceeded  to  view  the  field 
of  action,  unmoistened  indeed  with  blood,  but  covered  with  trophies 
of  the  early  harvest,  cut  down  by  his  victorious  troops — fields  of 
corn  and  rice  were  trampled  or  hacked  into  chaff.  In  some  spots 
the  earth  itself  was  ploughed  into  deep  channels  by  the  manoeuvres 
of  the  artillery,  while  here  and  there  were  scattered  the  buff -leather 
gloves  of  the  dragoons,  broken  plumes,  or  shreds  of  gold  lace  ; nay, 
even  a few  limping  foot-soldiers  and  chargers,  lamed  in  the  affray, 
still  incumbered  the  ground. 

At  one  moment  of  the  day,  however,  more  serious  consequences 
than  these  appeared  imminent.  The  French  soldiers  appointed  to 
occupy,  as  Austrians,  the  village  of  Marengo,  resenting  the  part  as- 
signed them  as  beaten  troops,  had  chosen  to  prolong  their  resistance 
beyond  the  period  specified  in  the  programme,  and  a violent  strug- 
gle took  place  between  them  and  their  opponents.  The  two  regi- 
ments happened  to  be  irritated  against  each  other  by  the  jealousies  of 
garrison  rivalship,  and  mutual  insults  and  challenges  having  been 
exchanged  on  the  spot,  bayonets  were  crossed  in  earnest  between  the 
two  corps. 

But  for  the  immediate  intervention  of  the  general  officers  present 
a terrible  contest  would  have  taken  place,  and  the  mimic  fight  be- 
come only  too  fatally  a reality.  With  some  difficulty  the  troops 
were  made  to  fraternize,  by  an  exchange  of  gourds  ; and  these  being 
unluckily  empty,  in  order  to  perfect  the  reconciliation  the  cellars  of 
the  village  were  laid  under  contribution.  Excess  now  succeeded  to 
obstinacy,  but  a unanimous  cry  of  “ Vive  I’Empereur”  having  been 
fortunately  raised  by  the  men,  the  whole  breach  of  discipline  was 
placed  to  the  account  of  military  enthusiasm  ; and,  after  twenty 
healths  had  been  tossed  off,  the  gallant  Austrians  consented  to  stag- 
ger defeated  from  the  field,  while  the  victorious  French  made  their 
triumphal  entry  into  Marengo,  dancing  the  farandola,  singing  the 
Marseillaise,  and  mingling  occasionally  in  their  hurrahs  the  now  for- 
bidden cry  of  “ Vive  la  Bepublique.”  But  their  insubordination  was 
now  justly  attributed  to  the  enthusiasm  of  intemperance. 

The  troops  having  been  formed  once  more  into  line,  Napoleon  pro- 
ceeded to  a distribution  of  crosses  of  honor  among  the  old  soldiers, 
who,  five  years  before,  had  fought  with  him  on  that  memorable  spot. 
A few  of  the  more  eminent  of  the  Cisalpine  magistrates  also  received 
decorations  on  the  field  ; after  which,  accompanied  by  Josephine, 
the  emperor  laid  the  first  stone  of  a monument  intended  to  perpetu- 
ate the  victory  of  Marengo  ; and,  the  ceremonies  of  the  morning  ac- 
complished, the  whole  court,  followed  by  the  whole  army,  took  their 
way  back  toward  Alexandria. 

All  this  time  the  destinies  of  Picciola  remained  undecided  ! 


?6 


PICCIOLA, 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

To  conclude  the  solemnities  of  the  day,  a public  banquet  was 
offered  to  the  emperor  and  empress  by  the  city  of  Alexandria,  in  the 
Town  Hall,  which  was  splendidly  decorated  for  the  occasion  ; after 
which,  their  majesties,  wearied  by  their  exertions,  retired  to  pass  the 
evening  in  one  of  the  private  apartments  allotted  to  their  use.  The 
emperor  and  empress  were  now  together,  attended  only  by  the  secre- 
tary of  the  former  ; and  while  dictating  his  dispatches  Napoleon  con- 
tinued to  pace  the  room,  rubbing  his  hands  with  an  air  of  satisfac- 
tion. Josephine,  meanwhile,  stood  beguiling  the  time  allotted  by 
her  lord  to  the  duties  of  empire,  by  admiring,  in  one  of  the  lofty  mir- 
rors of  the  saloon,  the  elegant  coquetry  of  her  own  dress  and  the 
splendor  of  the  jewels  in  which  she  was  arrayed. 

After  the  departure  of  the  secretary  the  emperor  took  his  seat ; and 
while  resting  his  elbow  on  a table  covered  with  crimson  velvet  richly 
fringed  with  gold,  he  fell  into  a train  of  reflections  announced  by  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  of  a highly  agreeable  nature.  But  the 
silence  in  which  he  was  absorbed  was  far  from  satisfactory  to  Jo- 
sephine. She  felt  that  he  had  deported  himself  harshly  toward  her 
that  morning  in  the  affair  of  the  Fenestrella  memorial.  But  she  was 
beginning  to  perceive  that  she  had  been  precipitate  in  pressing  her 
request  at  an  inauspicious  moment,  and  promised  herself  to  repair 
the  injury  she  might  have  done  her  pratige  by  referring  at  a more 
convenient  season  his  petition  to  the  emperor.  The  happy  moment 
she  fancied  was  now  arrived  ! 

Seating  herself  at  the  table  exactly  opposite  to  Napoleon,  and  rest- 
ing, like  himself,  her  chin  upon  her  hand,  she  met  his  inquiring  looks 
with  a smile,  and  demanded  the  subject  of  his  cogitations. 

“ Of  what  am  I thinking  ?”  replied  the  emperor  in  a cheerful  tone  ; 
“ that  the  imperial  diadem  is  a very  becoming  ornament,  and  that  I 
should  have  been  much  to  blame  had  I not  added  such  a trinket  to 
your  majesty’s  casket.” 

The  smiles  of  Josephine  subsided  as  he  spoke,  while  those  of  the 
emperor  brightened.  He  was  fond  of  repressing  those  nervous  tre- 
mors and  evil  auguries  on  the  part  of  the  empress,  naturally  excited 
by  the  extraordinary  change  of  condition  which  had  elevated  a sim- 
ple subject  to  the  imperial  throne. 

“ Are  you  not  better  pleased  to  salute  me  emperor  than  general  ?” 
he  persisted,  without  noticing  her  serious  looks. 

“I  am,  for  the  higher  title  endows  you  with  the  prerogative  of 
mercy,”  she  replied  ; “ and  I have  an  appeal  to  make  to  your  clem- 
ency,” 

It  was  now  Napoleon’s  turn  to  relapse  into  gravity.  Knitting  his 
brows,  he  prepared  himself  sternly  for  resistance  ; ever  on  the  watch 


PICCIOLA.  77 

lest  the  influence  of  Josephine  over  his  mind  should  beguile  him  into 
some  culpable  weakness  in  matters  of  state. 

“ How  often  have  you  promised  me,”  said  he  in  a tone  of  sever- 
ity, “to  interfere  no  more  with  the  course  of  public  justice?  Do 
you  suppose  that  the  privilege  of  according  pardon  is  assigned  to 
sovereigns  that  they  may  gratify  the  caprices  of  their  private  feel- 
ings ? Mercy  should  be  exercised  only  to  soften  the  too  rigorous 
justice  of  the  laws  or  rectify  the  errors  of  public  tribunals.  To 
extend  one’s  hand  in  continual  acts  of  forgiveness  is  wantonly  to 
multiply  and  strengthen  the  ranks  of  the  enemies  of  government.” 

“ Nevertheless,  sire,”  remonstrated  Josephine,  concealing  with  her 
handkerchief  the  tendency  to  mirth  she  could  scarcely  repress, 
“you  will  certain  comply  with  the  request  I am  about  to  make.” 

“I  doubt  it.” 

“ And  I persist  in  my  opinion  ; for  it  is  an  act  of  justice  rather 
than  of  clemency  I implore  at  your  hands.  I demand  that  two  op- 
pressors should  be  removed  from  the  post  they  hold.  Yes,  sire, 
let  them  be  dismissed  with  ignominy  ; let  them  be  condemned  and 
discarded  forever  from  the  service  of  your  majesty.” 

“ How,  Josephine  !”  cried  Napoleon,  “ is  it  by  your  lips  that  for 
once  I am  instigated  to  severity  ? Have  you  become  the  advocate  of 
punishment  ? Upon  whom,  pray,  are  you  thus  desirous  to  call  down 
vengeance  ?” 

“ Upon  two  flagstones,  sire,  which  are  superfluous  in  the  pavement 
of  a courtyard  !”  replied  the  empress,  indulging  unrestrained  in  the 
merriment  she  had  so  long  found  it  difficult  to  repress. 

“ Two  flagstones  ! Are  you  making  a jest  of  me  ?”  cried  Napoleon 
in  a severe  tone,  piqued  at  supposing  himself  treated  with  levity  by 
his  wife. 

“ Never  was  I more  truly  in  earnest,”  replied  Josephine,  “ for  on 
the  removal  of  these  two  stones  depends  the  happiness  of  a suffering 
human  being.  Let  me  entreat  your  majesty’s  attention  to  a history 
that  requires  your  utmost  indulgence  both  toward  myself  and  its 
unfortunate  object.  ” And  without  further  circumlocution  she  pro 
ceeded  to  acquaint  him  with  the  particulars  of  her  singular  interview 
with  Teresa  Girardi,  and  the  devoted  services  of  the  poor  girl  toward 
a friendless  prisoner,  whose  name  she  studiously  kept  concealed. 
While  enlarging  on  the  sufferings  of  the  captive,  on  his  passion  for 
his  plant,  and  the  disinterestedness  of  his  young  and  lovely  advocate, 
all  the  natural  eloquence  of  a humane  and  truly  feminine  heart  flowed 
from  her  lips  and  irradiated  her  speaking  countenance. 

Impressed  by  the  animation  of  her  gestures,  a respondent  smile 
played  upon  the  lips  of  the  emperor  ; but  that  smile,  alas  ! was  an 
exclusive  tribute  to  the  attractions  and  excellences  of  his  wife  ! 


78 


PICCIOLA. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Duking  this  tedious  interval  the  unhappy  Charney  was  counting 
the  hours,  the  minutes,  the  seconds,  with  the  utmost  impatience  ; he 
felt  as  if  the  minutest  divisions  of  time  were  maliciously  heaping 
themselves  together  to  weigh  down  the  head  of  his  devoted  flower. 

Two  days  had  now  elapsed.  The  messenger  brought  back  no  tid- 
ings ; and  even  the  venerable  Girardi  was  growing  uneasy,  and  be- 
ginning to  deduce  evil  auguries  from  the  absence  of  his  daughter. 
Hitherto,  however,  he  had  not  named  his  messenger  to  the  count ; 
and,  while  trying  to  awaken  hope  in  the  heart  of  liis  companion,  ex- 
perienced the  mortification  of  hearing  accusations  against  the  zeal 
and  fidelity  of  the  person  to  whom  the  mission  had  been  intrusted. 
Girardi  could  no  longer  refrain  from  accusing  himself  in  secret  of 
having  hazarded  the  safety  of  his  child.  “ Teresa,  my  daughter,  my 
dear  daughter  !”•  he  exclaimed,  amid  the  stillness  of  his  gloomy 
chamber,  “what — what  has  become  of  you?”  And  lo  ! the  third 
day  came,  and  no  Teresa  made  her  appearance. 

When  the  fourth  arrived,  Girardi  had  not  strength  to  show  himself 
at  the  window.  Charney  could  not  catch  even  a glimpse  of  his  fellow- 
prisoner  ; but  had  he  lent  a more  attentive  ear  he  might,  perhaps, 
have  overheard  the  supplications,  broken  by  sobs,  addressed  to 
Heaven  by  the  poor  old  man  for  the  safety  of  his  only  child.  A 
dark  veil  of  misery  seemed  suddenly  to  have  overspread  that  little 
spot,  where,  but  a short  time  before,  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  lib- 
erty, cheerfulness  and  contentment  diffused  their  enlivening  sunshine. 

The  very  plant  was  progressing  rapidly  to  its  last,  and  Charney 
found  himself  compelled  to  watch  over  the  dying  moments  of  his 
Picciola.  He  had  now  a double  cause  for  affliction — a dread  of  los- 
ing the  object  of  his  attachment,  and  of  having  degraded  himself  by 
useless  humiliation — if  he  should  have  humbled  himself  in  the  dust 
only  to  be  repulsed  from  the  footstool  of  the  usurper. 

As  if  the  whole  world  were  in  a conspiracy  against  him,  Ludovico, 
formerly  so  kind,  so  communicative,  so  genuine,  seemed  unwilling 
now  to  address  to  him  a single  word.  Taciturn  and  morose,  the 
jailer  came  and  went,  passed  through  the  court  or  returned  by  the 
winding  staircase,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  as  if  to  avoid  uttering 
a syllable.  He  seemed  to  have  taken  a spite  against  the  affliction  of 
his  captive.  The  fact  was  that  from  the  moment  the  refusal  of  the 
commandant  had  been  made  known  the  jailer  began  to  prepare  for 
the  movement  which  he  foresaw  was  about  to  place  before  him  the 
alternative  of  his  duty  and  his  inclination.  Duty,  he  knew,  must 
eventually  prevail,  and  he  affected  sullenness  and  brutality,  by  way 
of  gaining  courage  for  the  effort.  Such  is  the  custom  of  persons 
unrefined  by  the  polish  of  education.  In  fulfilling  whatever  harsh 


PICCIOLA. 


79 


functions  may  be  assigned  them,  they  try  to  extinguish  every  gen- 
erous impulse  in  their  souls  rather  than  soften  them  by  courtesy  of 
deportment.  Poor  Ludovico’s  goodness  of  heart  was  rarely  demon- 
strated in  words ; and  where  kindly  deeds  were  interdicted  by  those 
in  authority  over  him,  his  secret  compassion  usually  found  vent  in 
surliness  toward  the  very  victim  exciting  his  commiseration.  If  his 
ill-humor  should  call  forth  resentment,  so  much  the  better  : his  duty 
became  all  the  easier.  War  is  indispensable  between  victim  and  ex- 
ecutioner, prisoner  and  jailer. 

When  the  dinner-hour  arrived,  Ludovico,  finding  Charney  trans- 
fixed in  mournful  contemplation  beside  his  plant,  took  care  not  tc 
present  himself  in  the  gay  mood  with  which  he  was  wont  to  accost 
the  count,  sometimes  sportively  addressing  his  goddaughter  as 
“ Qiomnetta , fanciulletta ,”  or  inquiring  after  the  health  of  the 
“ count  and  countess  but,  traversing  the  court  in  haste,  without 
noticing  his  prisoner,  he  pretends  to  suppose  him  in  the  chamber 
above.  By  some  accidental  movement,  however,  on  the  part  of 
Charney,  Ludovico  suddenly  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the 
captive,  and  was  shocked  to  perceive  the  change  which  the  lapse  of 
a few  days  had  effected  in  his  countenance.  Impatience  and  anxiety 
had  furrowed  his  brow  and  discolored  his  lips  and  wasted  his 
cheeks,  while  the  disorder  of  his  hair  and  beard  served  to  increase 
the  wildness  of  his  aspect.  Against  his  will,  Ludovico  stood  motion- 
less, contemplating  these  melancholy  changes  ; but  suddenly  calling 
to  mind  his  previous  resolutions,  he  cast  an  eye  upon  the  flower, 
winked  ironically,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  whistled  a lively  air,  and 
was  about  to  take  his  departure  when  Charney  murmured,  in  a 
scarcely  recognizable  voice,  “ What  injury  have  I done  to  you,  Lu- 
dovico ?” 

‘ ‘ Me  ! — done  to  me!  None  that  I know  of,”  replied  the  jailer, 
more  deeply  touched  than  he  cared  to  show  by  the  plaintiveness  of 
this  apostrophe. 

“ In  that  case,”  said  the  count,  advancing  toward  him  and  seizing 
him  by  the  hand,  “ be  still  my  friend  ! Aid  me  while  there  is  yet 
time  ! I have  found  means  of  evading  all  objections  ! The  com- 
mandant can  have  no  further  scruples— nay,  he  need  not  know  a word 
of  the  matter.  Procure  me  only  a box  of  earth  ; we  will  gently  raise 
the  stones  for  a moment  and  transplant  the  flower — ” 

“ Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta  !”  interrupted  Ludovico,  drawing  back  his  hand. 
“ The  devil  take  the  gilly -flower  for  aught  I care  ! She  has  done 
mischief  enough  already  ; beginning  with  yourself,  who  are  about,  I 
see,  to  have  another  fit  of  illness.  Better  make  a pitcher  of  tissane  of 
her  before  ’tis  too  late.” 

Charney  replied  by  an  eloquent  glance  of  scorn  and  indignation. 

“ If  it  were  only  yourself  who  had  to  suffer,”  resumed  Ludovico, 
“ you  would  have  yourself  to  thank,  and  there  would  be  an  end  on’t. 
But  there  is  the  poor  old  man,  whom  you  have  deprived  of  his 


80 


PICCIOLA. 


daughter  ; for  Signor  Girardi  will  see  no  more  of  his  unhappy 

Teresa.” 

“Deprived  of  his  daughter?”  cried  the  count,  his  eyes  dilating 
with  horror  ; “ how  ? in  what  manner  ?” 

“ Ay  ! howl  in  what  manner?”  pursued  the  jailer,  setting  down 
his  basket  of  provisions  and  taking  the  attitude  of  one  about  to  ad- 
minister a harsh  reprimand.  “ People  lay  the  whip  to  the  horses, 
and  pretend  to  wonder  when  the  carriage  rolls  on.  People  let  fly  the 
stiletto,  and  pretend  to  wonder  when  blood  flows  from  the  wound. 
Trondidio ! 0 die  frascheria  ! You  chose  to  write  to  the  emperor 

— ’twas  your  own  affair  : you  wrote.  Well  and  good  ! You  in- 
fringed the  discipline  of  the  prison,  and  the  commandant  will  find 
’tis  time  to  punish  you.  Well  and  good  again.  But  because  you 
must  needs  have  a trusty  messenger  to  convey  your  unlucky  letter, 
nothing  less  would  serve  you  than  to  employ  the  jpovera  damigella  on 
your  fool’s  errand  !” 

' ‘ How  ! — you  mean  that  Girardi’s  daughter — ” 

“ Ay,  ay  ! open  your  eyes  and  look  surprised,”  interrupted  Ludo- 
vico. ‘ Did  you  suppose  that  your  correspondence  with  the  emperor 
was  to  be  conveyed  by  the  telegraph  ? The  telegraph,  sir,  has  got 
other  business  in  hand.  All  I have  got  to  tell  you  is  that  the  com- 
mandant has  discovered  the  whole  plot,  perhaps  through  the  guide 
(for  the  Giomna  could  not  hazard  herself  alone  on  such  an  expedi- 
tion). And  so  she  is  forbid  to  re-enter  the  fortress.  Her  poor  father 
will  behold  her  face  no  more.  And  through  whose  fault,  I should 
like  to  know  ?” 

Charney  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud. 

“ Unhappy  Girardi  ! have  I,  indeed,  deprived  thee  of  thine  only 
consolation?”  cried  he  at  last.  Then  turning  to  Ludovico,  he  in- 
quired whether  the  old  man  was  apprised  of  what  had  befallen  him. 

“ He  has  known  it  since  yesterday,’-’  replied  the  jailer  ; “ and  no 
doubt  loves  you  all  the  better.  But  make  haste  ! your  dinner  is  get- 
ting cold.” 

Charney,  overwhelmed  with  grief,  sank  upon  his  bench.  A mo- 
mentary pang  suggested  to  him  to  crush  Picciola  at  once,  executing 
retributive  justice  upon  her  with  his  own  hand.  But  he  had  not 
courage  for  a deed  so  ruthless,  and  a faint  hope  already  seemed  to 
glimmer  in  the  distance  for  his  favorite.  The  young  maiden  who 
had  thus  generously  devoted  herself  to  serve  him  must  be  already 
returned.  Perhaps  she  had  been  able  to  approach  the  emperor? 
Yes  ! doubtless  she  has  been  admitted  to  the  honor  of  an  audience  ; 
and  it  is  this  discovery  which  has  so  irritated  the  commandant 
against  her.  The  commandant  may  possibly  have  in  his  possession 
an  order  for  the  liberation  of  Picciola  ! In  that  case,  how  dares  he 
venture  on  further  delay  ? The  commands  of  the  emperor  must  be 
obeyed.  “Blessings,  blessings,”  thought  Charney,  “on  the  noble 
girl  who  has  befriended  us — the  girl  whom  I have  been  the  means 


PICCIOLA. 


81 


of  separating  from  her  father  ! Teresa  ! sweet  Teresa  ! how  willingly 
would  I sacrifice  half  my  existence  for  thy  sake— for  thy  happiness 
— nay,  what  would  I not  give  for  the  mere  power  of  opening  to  thee 
once  again  the  gates  of  the  fortress  of  Fenestrella  !” 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Scarcely  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  after  the  intimation  conveyed 
by  Ludovico  when  two  municipal  officers,  arrayed  in  their  tricolored 
scarfs  of  office,  presented  themselves,  accompanied  by  the  command- 
ant, before  the  Count  de  Charney,  and  requested  him  to  accompany 
them  to  his  own  chamber  ; on  arriving  in  which  the  commandant 
addressed  his  prisoner  with  considerable  pomposity  and  deliberation. 

The  commandant  was  a man  of  dignified  corpulency,  having  a 
round  bald  head  and  gray  bushy  whiskers.  A deep  scar,  extending 
from  the  left  eyebrow  to  the  upper  lip,  seemed  to  divide  his  face  in 
two.  A long  blue  uniform  coat,  with  prodigious  skirts,  buttoned 
closely  to  the  chin,  top-boots  over  his  pantaloons,  a slight  tint  of 
powder  on  his  remnant  of  a braided  pigtail  and  scanty  side-curls, 
spurs  to  his  boots  (by  way  of  distinction  doubtless,  for  the  rheuma- 
tism had  long  constituted  him  chief  prisoner  in  his  own  citadel) — 
such  were  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the  dignitary,  whose  only 
warlike  weapon  was  the  cane  on  which  his  gouty  limbs  leaned  for 
support. 

Appointed  to  the  custody  of  prisoners  of  state  alone,  most  of  whom 
were  members  of  families  of  distinction,  the  commandant  piqued 
himself  on  his  good  breeding,  in  spite  of  frequent  outbreaks  of  fury  ; 
and,  in  spite  of  certain  infractions  of  prosody  and  syntax,  on  the 
chosen  elegance  of  his  language.  He  was  upright,  moreover,  as  a 
pikestaff,  rejoiced  in  an  emphatic  and  sonorous  voice,  flourished 
his  hand  when  he  attempted  a bow,  and  scratched  his  head  when  he 
attempted  a speech.  Thus  qualified  and  endowed,  the  brave  Morand, 
captain  and  commandant  of  Fenestrella.  passed  for  a fine  soldier-like- 
looking  man  and  efficient  public  functionary. 

From  the  courteous  tone  assumed  in  his  initiatory  address,  and  the 
professional  attitude  of  the  two  commissaries  by  whom  he  was  ac- 
companied, Charney  fancied  that  their  sole  business  was  to  deliver  to 
him  a reprieve  for  his  unhappy  Picciola.  But  the  commandant’s 
next  sentence  consisted  in  an  inquiry  whether,  upon  any  specific 
occasion,  the  prisoner  had  to  complain  of  his  want  of  courtesy  or 
abuse  of  authority.  The  count,  still  flattering  himself  that  such  a 
preamble  augured  well  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  hopes,  certified 
all,  and  more  than  all,  that  civility  seemed  to  require  in  reply  to  tki® 
leading  question. 


82 


PICCIOLA. 


“You  cannot,  I imagine,  sir,  have  forgotten,”  persisted  the  com- 
mandant, “ the  care  and  kindness  lavished  upon  you  during  your 
illness  ? If  it  was  not  your  pleasure  to  submit  to  the  prescriptions  of 
the  physicians  appointed  to  visit  you,  the  fault  was  neither  theirs  nor 
mine,  but  your  own.  When  it  occurred  to  me  that  }rour  convales- 
cence might  be  accelerated  by  a greater  facility  for  taking  air  and 
exercise,  you  were  instantly  allowed,  at  all  times  and  seasons,  access 
to  the  prison  court  ?” 

Charney  inclined  his  head  in  token  of  grateful  affirmation.  But 
impatience  of  the  good  man’s  circumlocution  already  caused  him  to 
compress  his  lips. 

“ Nevertheless,  sir,”  resumed  the  commandant,  in  the  tone  of  a man 
whose  feelings  have  been  wounded,  and  whose  advances  were  repaid 
with  ingratitude,  “ you  have  not  scrupled  to  infringe  the  regulations 
of  the  fortress,  of  the  tenor  of  which  you  could  not  have  been  igno- 
rant, compromising  me  thereby  in  the  eyes  of  General  Menon,  the 
governor  of  Piedmont ; nay,  perhaps,  of  his  gracious  majesty  the 
emperor  himself.  The  memorial  which  you  have  contrived  to  place 
before  him — ” 

“ Place  before  him  ?”  interrupted  Charney  ; “ has  he  then  received 
it?” 

“ Of  course  he  has  received  it  !” 

“And  the  result,  the  result!”  cried  the  count,  trembling  with 
anxiety  ; “ what  has  been  decreed  ?” 

“ That,  as  a punishment  for  your  breach  of  discipline,  you  are  to 
be  confined  a month  in  the  dungeon  of  the  northern  bastion  of  the 
fortress  of  Fenestrella.  ’ ’ 

“ But  what  said  the  emperor  to  my  application  ?”  cried  the  count, 
unable  to  resign  at  once  all  his  cherished  hopes  of  redress. 

“ Do  you  suppose,  sir,  that  the  emperor  has  leisure  for  the  consid- 
eration of  any  such  contemptible  absurdities?”  was  the  disdainful 
reply  of  the  commandant  ; on  which  Charney,  throwing  himself  in 
complete  abstraction  into  the  only  chair  the  chamber  happened  to 
contain,  became  evidently  unconscious  of  all  that  was  passing  around 
him. 

“ This  is  not  all  !”  resumed  the  commandant  ; “ your  communica- 
tions with  the  exterior  of  the  fortress  being  thus  ascertained,  it  is 
natural  to  suppose  that  your  correspondence  may  have  been  more 
extensive  than  we  know  of,  and  I beg  to  inquire  whether  you 
have  addressed  letters  to  any  person  besides  his  majesty  the  em- 
peror ?” 

To  this  address  Charney  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

“ An  official  examination  of  your  chamber  and  effects  is  about  to 
take  place,”  added  the  man  in  authority.  “These  gentlemen  are 
appointed  by  the  governor  of  Turin  for  the  inquisitorial  duty,  which 
they  will  discharge  punctually,  according  to  legal  form,  in  your 
presence.  But  previous  to  the  execution  of  the  warrant,  I request  to 


PICCIOLA. 


83 


know  whether  you  have  any  personal  revelation  to  make  ? Volun- 
tary disclosures,  sir.  might  operate  favorably  in  your  behalf.” 

Still,  however,  the  prisoner  remained  obstinately  silent  ; and  the 
commandant,  knitting  his  brows  and  contracting  his  high  forehead 
into  a hundred  solemn  wrinkles,  assumed  an  air  of  severity,  and 
motioned  to  the  delegates  of  General  Menon  to  proceed  with  their 
duty.  They  immediately  began  to  ransack  the  chamber,  from  the 
chimney  and  palliasse  of  the  bed  to  the  linings  of  the  coats  of  the 
prisoner,  while  Morand  paced  up  and  down  the  narrow  chamber, 
tapping  with  his  cane  every  square  of  the  flooring,  to  ascertain 
whether  excavations  existed  for  the  concealment  of  papers  or  prep- 
arations for  flight.  He  called  to  mind  the  escape  of  Latude  and 
other  prisoners  from  the  Bastile,  where  moats,  both  deep  and  wide, 
walls  ten  feet  thick,  gratings,  counterscarps,  drawbridges,  ramparts 
bristled  with  cannon  and  palisades,  sentinels  at  every  postern,  on 
every  rampart,  had  proved  insufficient  to  baffle  the  perseverance  of 
a man  armed  with  a cord  and  a nail.  The  Bastile  of  Fenestrella  was 
far  from  possessing  the  same  iron  girdle  of  strength  and  security. 
Since  the  year  1796,  the  fortifications  had  been  in  part  demolished, 
and  the  citadel  was  now  defended  only  by  a few  sentries  planted  on 
the  external  bastion. 

After  a search  prolonged  as  far  as  the  limited  space  would  allow, 
nothing  of  a suspicious  nature  was  brought  to  light,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a small  vial,  containing  a blackish  liquid,  which  had  probably 
served  the  prisoner  for  ink.  Interrogated  as  to  the  means  by  which 
it  came  into  his  possession,  Charney  turned  toward  the  window 
and  began  tapping  with  his  fingers  on  the  glass,  without  condescend- 
ing to  reply  to  the  importunate  querists. 

The  dressing-case  still  remained  to  be  examined  ; but,  on  being 
required  to  give  up  the  key,  the  count,  instead  of  presenting  it  with 
becoming  respect  to  the  commandant,  almost  threw  it  into  the  hand 
extended  toward  him. 

Thus  boldly  defied  in  presence  of  his  subordinates,  the  command- 
ant disdained  all  further  attempts  at  conciliation.  He  was,  in  fact, 
suffocating  with  rage.  His  eyes  sparkled,  his  complexion  became 
livid,  and  he  bustled  up  and  down  the  little  chamber,  buttoning  and 
unbuttoning  his  coat  as  if  to  exhaust  the  transports  of  his  repressed 
indignation. 

At  length,  by  a spontaneous  movement,  the  two  sbirri,  occupied  in 
the  examination  of  the  casket,  holding  it  in  one  hand  and  turning 
over  its  contents  with  the  other,  advanced  toward  the  window,  to 
ascertain  whether  it  contained  secret  drawers,  and  immediately  ex- 
claimed, in  tones  of  triumph,  “ All’s  right  ! The  mystery  is  in  our 
hands.  ’ ’ 

Drawing  out  from  beneath  the  false  bottom  of  the  case  a number 
of  cambric  handkerchiefs,  closely  scribbled  over  and  carefully  folded, 
they  were  satisfied  of  having  obtained  possession  of  the  proofs  of  a 


84 


PICCIOIA. 


widely-organized  conspiracy  ; for  at  this  profanation  of  the  sacred 
archives  so  dear  to  him,  Cliarney  started  up  and  extended  his  hand 
to  snatch  back  the  treasures  of  which  he  saw  himself  despoiled. 
Then,  struck  by  the  consciousness  of  his  own  incapacity  of  resist- 
ance, he  reseated  himself  in  his  chair  without  uttering  a syllable  of 
remonstrance. 

But  the  impetuosity  of  his  first  movements  was  not  lost  upon  the 
commandant,  who  saw  at  once  that  the  documents  which  had  fallen 
into  his  hands  were  of  the  highest  importance  in  the  estimation  of 
the  count.  The  handkerchiefs,  therefore,  were  deposited  on  the 
spot  in  a government  dispatch-bag,  duly  sealed  and  docketed.  Even 
the  soot-bottle  and  toothpick  were  confiscated  to  the  state  ! A report 
was  drawn  up  of  the  proceedings  which  had  taken  place,  to  which 
the  signature  of  Charney  was^formally  demanded,  impatiently  re- 
fused, and  the  refusal  duly  recorded  at  the  end  of  the  document, 
after  which  the  commandant  issued  his  mandate  for  the  immediate 
transfer  of  the  prisoner  to  the  northern  bastion. 

What  vague,  confused,  and  painful  emotions  prevailed,  mean- 
while, in  the  mind  of  the  prisoner  ! Charney  was  alive  only  to  a 
single  stroke  of  his  afflictions — a stroke  which  deadened  his  con- 
sciousness of  all  the  rest.  He  had  not  so  much  as  a smile  of  pity  to 
bestow  upon  the  imaginary  triumph  of  the  blockheads  who  were 
carrying  off  what  they  supposed  to  be  the  groundwork  of  a criminal 
impeachment,  but  which  consisted  in  a series  of  scientific  observa- 
tions upon  the  growth  and  properties  of  his  plant  ! Yes,  even  Ins 
tenderest  recollections^snatclied  from  his  possession  ; and  an  impas- 
sioned lover  required  to  give  up  the  letters  of  his  mistress  can  alone 
enter  into  the  despair  of  the  captive.  To  preserve  Picciola  from  de- 
struction he  had  tarnished  his  honor,  his  self-esteem,  broken  the 
heart  of  a benevolent  old  man,  destroyed  the  happiness  of  a gentle 
and  lovely  girl,  and  of  all  that  had  sufficed  to  attach  him  to  a life  of 
wretchedness.  Every  trace  is  now  effaced,  every  record  destroyed, 
the  very  journal  of  those  happy  hours  which  he  had  enjoyed  in  the 
presence  of  his  idol  is  torn  forever  from  his  possession  ! 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  intervention  of  Josephine  in  Charney’s  favor  had  not  proved 
so  efficient  as  might  have  been  supposed.  At  the  conclusion  of  her 
mild  intercessions  in  favor  of  the  prisoner  and  his  plant,  when  she 
proceeded  to  place  in  the  hands  of  Napoleon  the  handkerchief  in- 
scribed with  his  memorial,  the  emperor  recalled  to  mind  the  singular 
indifference,  so  mortifying  to  his  self-love,  with  which,  during  the 
warlike  evolutions  of  the  morning  at  Marengo,  Josephine  had  cast 


PICCIOLA. 


85 


her  vacant,  careless  gaze  upon  the  commemoration  of  his  triumph. 
And  thus  predisposed  to  displeasure,  the  obnoxious  name  of  Charney 
served  only  to  aggravate  his  ill-humor. 

“ Is  the  man  mad  ?”  cried  he,  “ or  does  he  pretend  to  deceive  me 
by  a farce  ? A Jacobin  turned  botanist  ? — about  as  good  a jest  as 
Marat  descanting  in  the  tribune  on  the  pleasures  of  pastoral  life,  or 
Couthon  presenting  himself  to  the  Convention  with  a rose  in  his 
button-hole.” 

Josephine  vainly  attempted  to  appeal  against  the  name  of  Jacobin 
thus  lightly  bestowed  upon  the  count ; for  as  she  commenced  her 
remonstrance,  a chamberlain  made  his  appearance  to  announce  that 
the  general  officers,  ambassadors,  and  deputies  of  Italy  were  awaiting 
their  majesties  in  the  audience  chamber,  where,  having  hastily  re- 
paired, Napoleon  immediately  burst  forth  into  a denunciation  against 
visionaries,  philosophers,  and  liberals,  mainl}7*  inspired  by  the  recent 
mention  of  the  Count  de  Charney.  In  an  imperious  tone  he  threat- 
ened that  all  such  disturbers  of  public  order  should  be  speedily  re- 
duced to  submission  ; but  the  loud  and  threatening  tone  he  had  as- 
sumed, which  was  supposed  to  be  a spontaneous  outbreak  of  passion, 
was,  in  fact,  a premediated  lesson  bestowed  on  the  assembly,  and 
more  especialty  on  the  Prussian  ambassador,  who  was  present  at  the 
scene.  Napoleon  seized  the  opportunity  to  announce  to  the  repre- 
sentatives of  Europe  the  divorce  of  the  emperor  of  the  French  from 
the  principles  of  the  French  Revolution  ! 

By  way  of  homage  to  the  throne,  the  subordinates  of  the  emperor 
hastened  to  emulate  his  new  profession  of  faith.  The  general  com- 
mandant at  Turin,  more  especially  Jacques  Abdallah  Menon,  forget- 
ting or  renouncing  his  former  principles,  burst  forth  into  a furious 
diatribe  against  the  pseudo  Brutuses  of  the  clubs  and  taverns  of  Italy 
and  France  ; on  which  signal  arose  from  the  minions  of  the  empire 
a unanimous  chorus  of  execrations  against  all  conspirators,  revolu- 
tionists, and  more  expressly  Jacobins,  till,  overawed  by  their  viru- 
lence, Josephine  began  to  tremble  at  the  storm  she  had  been  unwit- 
tingly the  means  of  exciting.  At  length,  drawing  near  to  the  ear  of 
Napoleon,  she  took  courage  to  whisper,  in  a tone  of  mingled  tender- 
ness and  irony,  “What  need,  sire,  of  all  these  denunciations?  My 
memorial  regards  neither  a Jacobin  nor  a conspirator,  but  simply  a 
poor  plant,  whose  plots  against  the  safety  of  the  empire  should 
scarcely  excite  such  vast  tumults  of  consternation.  ’ ’ 

Napoleon  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “ Can  you  suppose  me  the  dupe 
of  such  absurd  pretences  ?”  he  exclaimed.  “ This  Charney  is  a man 
of  high  faculties  and  the  most  dangerous  principles  ; would  you  pass 
him  upon  me  for  a blockhead  ? The  flower,  the  pavement,  the 
whole  romance  is  a mere  pretext.  The  fellow  is  getting  up  a plan 
of  escape  ! It  must  be  looked  to.  Menon  ! let  a careful  eye  be  kept 
upon  the  movements  of  those  imprisoned  for  political  offences  in  the 
citadel  of  Fenestrella.  One  Charney  has  presumed  to  address  to  me 


86 


PICCIOLA. 


a memorial.  How  did  he  manage  to  forward  his  petition  otherwise 
than  through  the  hands  of  the  commandant  ? Is  such  the  discipline 
kept  up  in  the  state-prisons  of  the  empire?” 

Again  the  empress  ventured  to  interpose  in  defence  of  her  protege. 

“ Enough,  madam,  enough  of  this  man  !”  exclaimed  the  com- 
mander-in-chief ; and  discouraged  and  alarmed  by  the  displeasure 
expressed  in  his  words  and  looks,  Josephine  cast  down  her  eyes  and 
was  silent  from  confusion.  General  Menon,  on  the  other  hand,  mor- 
tified by  the  public  rebuke  of  the  emperor,  was  not  sparing  in  the 
reprimand  dispatched  to  the  captain-commandant  of  the  citadel  of 
Fenestrella,  who,  in  his  turn,  as  we  have  seen,  vented  his  vexation 
on  the  prisoners  committed  to  his  charge.  Even  Girardi,  in  addition 
to  the  cruel  sentence  of  separation  from  his  daughter  (who,  on  arriv- 
ing full  of  hopes  at  the  gates  of  the  fortress,  was  commanded  to  appear 
there  no  more),  had  been  subjected,  like  Charney,  to  a domiciliary 
visit,  by  which,  however,  nothing  unsatisfactory  was  elicited. 

But  emotions  more  painful  than  those  resulting  from  the  forfeiture 
of  his  manuscripts  now  awaited  the  count  : as  he  traversed  the  court- 
yard, on  his  way  to  the  bastion  with  the  commandant  and  his  two 
acolytes,  Captain  Morand,  who  had  either  passed  without  noticing, 
on  his  arrival,  the  fences  and  scaffolding  surrounding  the  plant,  or 
was  now  stimulated  by  the  arrogant  contumacy  of  Charney  to  an  act 
of  vengeance,  paused  to  point  out  to  Ludovico  this  glaring  breach  of 
prison  discipline  manifested  before  his  eyes. 

“ What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  rubbish  ?”  cried  he.  “ Is  such, 
sir,  the  order  you  maintain  in  your  department  ?” 

That,  captain,”  replied  the  jailer,  in  a half-jesting,  half-grum- 
bling tone,  drawing  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  with  one  hand  and 
raising  the  other  to  his  cap  in  a military  salute — “ that,  under  your 
favor,  is  the  plant  I told  you  of,  which  is  so  good  for  the  gout,  and 
all  sorts  of  disorders.” 

Then,  letting  fall  his  arm  by  an  imperceptible  movement,  he  re- 
placed his  pipe  in  its  usual  place. 

“ Death  and  the  devil  !”  cried  the  captain  ; “ if  these  gentlemen 
were  allowed  to  have  their  way,  all  the  chambers  and  courts  of  the 
citadel  might  be  made  into  gardens,  menageries,  or  shops,  like  so 
many  stalls  at  a fair  Away  with  this  weed  at  once,  and  everything 
belonging  to  it !” 

Ludovico  turned  his  eyes  alternately  toward  the  captain,  the  count, 
and  the  flower,  and  was  about  to  interpose  a word  or  two  of  expos- 
tulation. “ Silence  !”  cried  the  commandant ; “ silence,  and  do 
your  duty.  ’ ’ 

Thus  fiercely  admonished,  Ludovico  held  his  peace  ; removing  the 
pipe  once  more  from  his  mouth,  he  extinguished  it,  shook  out  the 
dust,  and  deposited  it  on  the  edge  of  the  wall,  while  he  proceeded  to 
•msiness.  Deliberately  laying  aside  his  cap,  his  waistcoat,  and  rub- 
Lmg  his  hands  as  if  to  gain  courage  for  the  job,  he  paused  a moment, 


PICCIOLA. 


87 


then  suddenly,  with  a movement  of  anger  as  if  against  himself  or 
his  chief,  seized  the  hay-hands  and  matting  and  dispersed  them  over 
the  court.  Next  went  the  uprights  which  had  supported  them, 
which  he  tore  up  one  after  the  other,  broke  over  his  knee,  and  threw 
the  pieces  on  the  pavement.  His  former  tenderness  for  Picciola 
seemed  suddenly  converted  into  a fit  of  abhorrence. 

Charney,  meanwhile,  stood  motionless  and  stupefied,  his  eyes 
fixed  wistfully  upon  the  plant  thus  exposed  to  view,  as  if  his  looks 
could  still  afford  protection  to  its  helplessness.  The  day  had  been 
cool,  the  sky  overclouded,  and  from  the  stem,  which  had  rallied 
during  the  night,  sprang  several  little  healthy,  verdant  shoots.  It 
seemed  as  though  Picciola  were  collecting  all  her  strength  to  die  ! 

To  die! — Picciola  ! — bis  own,  his  only  ! — the  world  of  his  existence 
and  his  dreams,  the  pivot  on  which  revolved  his  very  life,  to  be  re- 
duced to  nothingness  ! midway  in  his  aspirations  toward  a higher 
sphere,  the  flight  of  the  poor  captive  over  whose  head  Heaven  has 
suspended  its  sentence  of  expiation,  is  to  be  suddenly  arrested  ! How 
will  he  henceforward  fill  up  the  vacant  moments  of  his  leisure  ? 
how  satisfy  the  aching  void  in  his  own  bosom  ? Picciola,  the  desert 
which  thou  didst  people  is  about  to  become  once  more  a solitary  wil- 
derness ! No  more  visions,  no  more  hopes,  no  more  reminiscences, 
no  more  discoveries  to  inscribe,  no  further  objects  of  affection  ! 
How  narrow  will  his  prison  now  appear — how  oppressive  its  atmos- 
phere— the  atmosphere  of  a tomb — the  tomb  of  Picciola  ! The 
golden  branch — the  sibylline  divining  rod,  which  sufficed  to  exorcise 
the  evil  spirits  by  which  he  was  beset — will  no  longer  protect  him 
against  himself  ! The  sceptic,  the  disenchanted  philosopher  must 
return  to  his  former  mood  of  incredulity,  and  bear  once  more  the 
burden  of  his  bitter  thoughts,  with  no  prospect  before  him  but 
eternal  extinction  ! No  ! death  were  a thousand  times  preferable  to 
such  a destiny  ! 

As  these  thoughts  glanced  through  the  mind  of  Charney,  he  beheld 
at  the  little  grated  window  the  shadow  of  the  venerable  Girardi. 
“Alas!”  murmured  the  count,  “I  have  deprived  him  of  all  he 
had  to  live  for,  and  he  comes  to  triumph  over  my  affliction,  to 
curse  me,  to  deride  me  ! And  he  is  right ; for  what  are  sorrows 
such  as  mine  compared  with  those  I have  heaped  on  his  revered 
head  ?” 

Charney  perceived  the  old  man  clasping  the  iron  window-bars  in 
his  trembling  hands,  but  dared  not  meet  his  eyes,  and  hazard  an 
appeal  to  the  forgiveness  of  the  only  human  being  of  whose  esteem 
he  was  ambitious.  The  count  dreaded  to  find  that  venerable  counte- 
nance distorted  by  the  expression  of  reproach  or  contempt ; and 
when  at  length  their  glances  met  he  was  touched  to  the  soul  by  the 
look  of  tender  compassion  cast  upon  him  by  the  unhappy  father, 
forgetful  of  his  own  sorrows  in  beholding  those  of  his  companion 
in  misfortune.  The  only  tears  that  had  ever  fallen  from  the  eyes  of 


88 


picciola. 


the  Count  de  Charney  started  at  that  trying  moment.  But,  consol- 
atory as  they  were,  he  dried  them  hurriedly  as  they  fell,  in  the  dread 
of  exposing  his  weakness  to  the  contempt  and  misapprehension  of 
the  men  by  whom  he  was  surrounded. 

Among  the  spectators  of  this  singular  scene,  the  two  sbirri  alone 
remained  indifferent  to  what  was  passing  ; staring  vacantly  at  the 
prisoner,  the  old  man,  the  commandant,  and  the  jailer  ; wondering 
what  reference  their  emotions  might  bear  to  the  supposed  conspiracy, 
and  nothing  doubting  that  the  mysterious  plant,  about  to  be  dis- 
lodged, would  prove  to  have  been  a cover  to  some  momentous  hiding- 
place. 

Meanwhile  the  fatal  operations  proceeded.  Under  the  orders  of 
the  commandant,  Ludovico  was  attempting  to  break  up  the  rustic 
bench,  which  at  first  seemed  to  resist  his  feeble  efforts. 

“ A mallet — take  a mallet  !”  cried  Captain,  Morand. 

Ludovico  obeyed  ; but  the  mallet  fell  from  his  hands. 

“ Death  and  the  devil  ! how  much  longer  am  I to  be  kept  wait- 
ing?” now  vociferated  the  captain,  and  the  jailer  immediately  let 
fall  a blow  under  which  the  bench  gave  way  in  a moment.  Mechan- 
ically Ludovico  bent  toward  his  goddaughter,  which  wras  now  alone 
and  undefended  in  the  court,  while  the  count  stood  ghastly  and 
overpowered,  big  drops  of  agony  rising  from  his  brow. 

“ Why  destroy  it,  sir,  why  destroy  it  ? — you  must  perceive  that  the 
plant  is  about  to  die  !”  he  faltered,  descending  once  more  to  the 
abject  position  of  a suppliant.  But  the  captain  replied  only  by  a 
glance  of  ironical  compassion.  It  was  now  his  turn  to  remain  silent. 

“ Nay,  then,”  cried  Charney  in  a sort  of  frenzy,  “ since  it  must 
needs  be  sacrificed,  it  shall  die  by  no  hand  but  mine  !” 

“ I forbid  you  to  touch  it  !”  exclaimed  the  commandant ; and  ex- 
tending his  cane  before  Charney,  as  if  to  create  a barrier  between 
the  prisoner  and  his  idol,  he  renewed  his  orders  to  Ludovico,  who, 
seizing  the  stem,  was  about  to  uproot  it  from  the  earth. 

The  count,  startled  into  submission,  stood  like  an  image  of  despair. 

Near  the  bottom  of  the  stem,  below  the  lowest  branches  where  the 
sap  had  got  power  to  circulate,  a single  flower,  fresh  and  brilliant, 
had  just  expanded  ! — already  all  the  others  were  drooping  withered 
on  their  stalks,  but  this  single  one  retained  its  beauty,  as  yet  un- 
crushed by  the  rude  hand  of  the  jailer.  Springing  in  the  midst  of  a 
little  tuft  of  leaves,  whose  verdure  threw  out  in  contrast  the  vivid 
colors  of  its  petals,  the  flower  seemed  to  turn  imploringly  toward  its 
master.  He  even  fancied  its  last  perfumes  were  exhaling  toward 
him  ; and,  as  the  tears  rose  in  his  eyes,  seemed  to  see  the  beloved  ob- 
ject enlarge,  disappear,  and  at  last  bloom  out  anew.  The  human 
being  and  the  flower,  so  strangely  attached  to  each  other,  were  inter- 
changing an  eternal  farewell  1 

If,  at  that  moment,  when  so  many  human  passions  were  called 
into  action  by  the  existence  of  an  humble  vegetable,  a stranger  could 


PICCIOLA. 


89 


have  entered  unprepared  the  prison-court  of  Fcnestrella,  where  the 
sky  shed  a sombre  and  saddening  reflection — the  aspect  of  the 
officers  of  justice  invested  in  their  tricolored  scarfs,  of  the  com- 
mandant, issuing  his  ruthless  orders  in  a tone  of  authority — would 
naturally  have  seemed  to  announce  some  frightful  execution,  of 
which  Ludovico  was  the  executioner  and  Charney  the  victim  whose 
sentence  of  death  had  just  been  recited  to  him.  And  see,  they  come  ! 
— strangers  are  entering  the  court — two  strangers,  the  one  an  aide- 
de-camp  of  General  Menon,  the  other  a page  of  the  Empress  Jo- 
sephine. The  dust  with  which  their  uniforms  are  covered  attests 
with  what  speed  they  have  performed  their  journey  to  the  fortress  ; 
yet  a minute  more  and  they  had  been  too  late  ! 

At  the  noise  produced  by  their  arrival,  Ludovico,  raising  his  head, 
relaxed  his  grasp  of  Picciola  and  confronted  Charney  face  to  face. 
Both  the  jailer  and  the  prisoner  were  pale  as  death  ! 

The  commandant  had  now  received  from  the  hands  of  the  aide-de- 
camp  an  order,  the  perusal  of  which  seemed  to  strike  him  with  as- 
tonishment ; but  after  taking  a turn  or  two  in  the  courtyard,  to  com- 
pare in  his  mind  the  order  of  to-day  with  that  of  the  day  preceding, 
he  assumed  a more  courteous  demeanor,  and  approaching  the  Count 
de  Charney  placed  in  his  hands  the  missive  of  General  Menon. 
Trembling  with  emotion,  the  prisoner  read  as  follows  : 

“ His  majesty  the  emperor  and  king  deputes  me,  sir,  to  inform  you 
that  he  grants  the  petition  forwarded  to  him  by  the  prisoner  Charney, 
now  under  your  custody  in  the  fortress  of  Fenestrella,  relative  to  a 
plant  growing  among  the  stones  of  one  of  its  pavements.  Such  as 
are  likely  to  be  injurious  to  the  flower  must  be  instantly  removed  ; 
for  which  purpose  you  are  requested  to  consult  the  wishes  and 
convenience  of  your  prisoner.” 

4 4 Long  live  the  emperor  !”  cried  Ludovico. 

“ Long  live  the  emperor  !”  murmured  another  voice,  which  seemed 
to  issue  from  the  adjoining  wall ; and  while  all  this  was  proceeding 
the  commandant  stood  leaning  on  his  cane,  by  way  of  keeping  him- 
self in  countenance  ; the  two  officers  of  justice,  completely  puzzled, 
were  trying  in  vain  to  connect  the  new  turn  of  affairs  with  the  plot 
which  their  imagination  had  created,  while  the  aide-de-camp  and 
page  secretly  wondered  what  could  be  the  motive  of  the  haste  which 
had  been  so  urgently  recommended  to  them.  The  latter  now  ad- 
dressed Charney,  to  inform  him  that  the  letter  contained  a postscript 
in  the  handwriting  of  the  empress  ; and  the  count,  turning  over  the 
page,  read  aloud  as  follows  : 

“ I earnestly  recommend  Monsieur  the  Count  de  Charney  to  the 
good  offices  of  Captain  Morand  ; to  whom  I shall  feel  personally 
obliged  for  any  acts  of  kindness  by  which  he  may  be  enabled  to  alle- 
viate the  situation  of  his  prisoner.  Josephine.” 

“ Long  live  the  empress  !”  cried  Ludovico.  Charney  said  not  a 
word.  His  feelings  could  not  be  satisfied  with  less  than  raising  to 


90 


PICCIOLA. 


his  lips  the  precious  signature  of  his  benefactress.  The  letter,  held 
for  some  minutes  in  silence  before  his  eyes,  served  to  conceal  his 
face  from  the  curiosity  of  the  spectators. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  commandant  of  Fenestrella  was  now  unrelaxing  in  his  courte- 
sies toward  the  prote'gd  of  her  majesty  the  empress- queen.  There  wag 
no  further  mention  of  a transfer  to  the  northern  bastion,  and  Charney 
was  even  authorized  to  reconstruct  his  fences  for  the  defence  of  Pic- 
ciola,  who,  feeble  and  delicate  after  her  recent  transplantation,  had 
more  than  ever  occasion  for  protection.  So  completely  indeed  had 
Captain  Morand’s  irritation  of  feeling  against  the  prisoner  and  plant 
subsided  that  every  morning  Ludovico  appeared  with  a message  of 
inquiry  from  the  commandant  after  the  wants  and  wishes  of  the  count 
and  the  health  of  his  pretty  Picciola. 

Profiting  by  these  favorable  dispositions,  Charney  obtained  from 
his  munificence  an  allowance  of  pens,  ink,  and  paper  wherewith  to 
commemorate  the  sequel  of  his  studies  and  observations  on  vegetable 
physiology  ; for  the  letter  of  the  Governor  of  Turin  did  not  go  so  far 
as  to  cancel  the  confiscation  which  had  taken  place  of  his  former 
lucubrations.  The  two  judiciary  sbirri , after  carrying  off  his  cambric 
archives  and  submitting  them  to  the  most  careful  examination,  ad- 
mitted their  incompetency  to  discover  a key  to  the  cipher,  and  trans- 
mitted the  whole  to  the  minister  of  police  in  Paris,  that  more  able 
decipherers  might  be  employed  to  search  out  the  root  of  the  mystery. 

But  Charney  had  now  to  deplore  a far  more  important  privation. 
The  commandant  resolved  to  visit  upon  Girardi,  the  only  victim 
within  his  reach,  the  reprimand  originally  addressed  to  him  by  General 
Menon,  had  consigned  the  venerable  Italian  to  a stronger  part  of  the 
fortress,  secure  from  all  communication  with  the  exterior  ; and  the 
count  could  not  refrain  from  bitter  self-reproaches  when  he  reflected 
upon  the  miserable  isolation  of  the  poor  old  man. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  day  Ins  eyes  remained  mournfully  fixed 
upon  the  grating  in  the  wall,  the  little  window  of  which  was  now 
closed  up.  In  fancy  he  still  beheid  Girardi  extending  his  arm  through 
the  bars  and  trying  to  bestow  upon  him  a friendly  pressure  of  the 
hand  ; nay,  he  still  seemed  to  see  his  precious  memorial  to  the  emperor 
fluttering  against  the  wall  and  gradually  drawn  up  from  his  own 
hands  to  those  of  Girardi,  thence  to  proceed  to  the  hands  of  Teresa 
and  the  empress.  The  very  glance  of  pity  and  pardon  cast  down  upon 
him  by  Girardi  in  his  moment  of  anguish  seemed  to  shine  ineffaceably 
on  the  spot ; and  often  did  he  hear  again  the  cry  of  exultation  which 
burst  from  the  window  on  the  arrival  of  Picciola’s  reprieve.  That 


PICCIOLA. 


91 


Very  sentence  of  pardon  is  in  fact  the  gift  of  Girardi  and  GirardFs 
daughter  ; and  though  solely  serviceable  to  himself,  has  become  the 
fatal  origin  of  their  separation  and  the  sorrows  of  the  parent  and  his 
child. 

Even  the  countenance  of  Teresa  was  restored  by  the  efforts  of  his 
imagination  to  the  spot  where  alone  it  had  been  momentarily  revealed 
to  his  eyes,  at  the  close  of  the  uneasy  dream  which  he  now  believed 
to  have  foreshown  the  approaching  perils  of  his  plant.  Inseparably 
United  in  his  mind  with  the  Picciola  of  his  dreams,  it  was  always 
under  her  form  and  features  that  the  living  Teresa  Girardi  was  re- 
vealed to  him. 

One  day,  as  with  his  eyes  upraised  toward  the  grating,  the  prisoner 
stood  indulging  in  these  and  similar  illusions,  the  dim  and  dusty  win- 
dow was  flung  open,  and  a female  form  appeared  behind  the  grating. 
But  the  new-comer  was  a swarthy,  savage-  looking  woman,  with  rapa- 
cious eyes  and  an  enormous  goitre,  in  whom  the  count  g oon  recog- 
nized the  wife  of  Ludovico. 

From  that  moment  Charney  never  cast  his  eyes  toward.  the  win- 
dow. The  charm  was  broken. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Relieved  from  all  constraint,  embedded  in  new  earth,  and  capa- 
ciously framed  in  the  wide  pavement,  Picciola  seemed  to  rise  trium- 
phantly from  her  tribulations.  She  had,  however,  survived  her  sum- 
mer blossoms,  with  the  exception  of  that  single  flower,  the  last  to 
open  and  the  last  to  fall. 

Charney  already  foresaw  important  discoveries  to  be  deduced  from 
the  seed  which  was  swelling  and  ripening  in  the  calyx.  He  prom- 
ised himself  the  triumph  of  the  Dies  Seminalis,  or  Feast  of  the 
Sowers.  For  space  was  no  longer  wanting  for  his  experiments  • 
Picciola  has  more  than  enough  room  for  her  own  expansion.  Sh» 
has  every  facility  to  become  a mother  and  shelter  her  uprising  chh 
dren  under  the  shadow  of  her  branches. 

While  waiting  this  important  event,  the  count  becomes  eager  to  as 
certain  the  real  name  of  the  fair  companion  to  whom  he  is  "indebted 
for  so  many  happy  hours. 

“ Shall  I never  be  able,”  thought  Charney,  “ to  bestow  upon  my 
foundling,  my  adopted  child,  the  name  she  inherits  from  science,  in 
common  with  her  legitimate  sisters  of  the  plain  or  mountain?” 

And  at  the  first  visit  paid  by  the  commandant  to  his  charge,  the 
count  admitted  his  desire  to  procure  an  elementary  botanical  work. 
Morand,  unwilling  either  to  refuse  or  to  take  upon  himself  the  vast 
responsibility  of  compliance,  thought  proper  to  signify  the  demand 


92 


PICCIOLA. 


in  punctilious  form  to  the  governor  of  Piedmont.  But  from  General 
Menon  the  proUgf  of  the  empress  was  now  safe  from  a refusal  ; and 
a botanical  dictionary  soon  arrived  at  the  fortress,  accompanied  by 
all  the  folios  treating  of  botany  which  could  be  obtained  from  the 
Royal  Library  of  Turin. 

“ I have  the  honor,”  wrote  General  Menon,  “ to  facilitate  to  the 
utmost  the  wishes  of  the  Sieur  Cliarney  ; for  her  majesty  the  empress- 
queen,  a proficient  in  botanical  science  (as  in  many  others),  will 
doubtless  be  glad  to  learn  the  name  of  a plant  in  whose  welfare  she 
has  deigned  to  evince  an  interest.” 

When  Ludovico  made  his  appearance  with  the  piles  of  books,  under 
the  enormous  weight  of  which  his  back  was  breaking,  Charney  could 
not  resist  a smile. 

‘'How  !”  cried  he,  “ all  this  heavy  artillery  to  compel  a poor  help- 
less flower  to  give  up  her  name  ?” 

Nevertheless,  it  afforded  him  satisfaction  to  look  once  more  upon 
a book.  In  turning  over  the  leaves  his  heart  thrilled  with  pleasure 
as  in  former  days,  wben  the  attainment  of  knowledge  was  his  chief 
delight  in  life.  What  months  had  now  elapsed  since  printed  charac- 
ters were  before  his  eyes  ! Already  a plan  of  sage  and  sober  study 
was  concocting  in  his  excited  mind. 

“ If  ever  I am  released  from  captivity,”  thought  he,  “ I will  cer- 
tainly become  a botanist.  Instead  of  scholastic  and  pedantic  contro- 
versies, which  serve  only  to  bewilder  the  human  intellect,  I will  de- 
vote myself  to  a science  where  nature,  ever  varying  yet  still  the  same, 
dispenses  immutable  laws  to  her  disciples.” 

The  books  forwarded  for  the  use  of  the  Count  de  Charney  con- 
sisted of  the  Species  Plantarum  of  Linnaeus,  the  Institutiones  rei 
Herbaria  of  Tournefort,  the  Theatrum  Botanicum  of  Bauhin,  and 
the  Phytographia , Dendrologia  and  Agrostographia  of  Plukenet,  Aldro- 
vaudus,  and  Sclieuchzer,  besides  half  a hundred  works  of  minor  clas- 
sicality  in  the  French,  English,  and  Italian  languages. 

Though  somewhat  startled  by  so  formidable  an  array  of  learning,  the 
count  was  not  discouraged,  and,  by  way  of  preparation  for  the 
worst,  opened  the  thinnest  volume  of  the  collection  and  began  to  ex- 
amine the  index  in  search  of  the  most  euphonious  titles  afforded  by 
botanic  nomenclature.  He  longed  to  appropriate  to  his  purpose  some 
of  the  softer  saints  of  the  floral  calendar,  such  as  Alcea,  Alisma, 
Andryala,  Bromelia,  Celosia,  Coronilla,  Euphrasia,  Helvellia,  Pas- 
siflora,  Primula,  Santolina,  or  some  other  equally  soft  to  the  lip  and 
harmonious  to  the  ear. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  he  began  to  tremble  lest  his  pretty 
favorite  should  inherit  some  quaint  or  harsh  patronymic.  A mascu- 
line or  neuter  termination  would  put  to  flight  all  his  poetical  vaga- 
ries concerning  his  gentle  friend.  What,  for  instance,  would  be- 
come of  his  ethereal  Picciola  if  her  earthly  prototype  were  to  be 
saluted  as  Bumex  obtusifolius , Satyrium , Hyoscyamus , Qossypmm , 


PICCIOLA. 


93 


Cynoglossum , Cucubalus,  Cenchrus , Buxus,  or,  worse  still,  and  in  more 
Vulgar  phrase,  as  Old  Man,  Dogtooth,  Houndstongue,  Cuckoo-flower, 
Devil-in-a-bush,  Hen  and  Chickens,  or  Spiderwort?  How  should 
he  support  such  a disenchantment  of  his  nympholeptic  imagination  ? 
No  ! better  not  to  risk  the  vexation  of  such  an  ordeal. 

Yet  in  spite  of  himself  he  found  it  impossible  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  opening  every  successive  volume,  led  on  from  page  to  page  by 
the  development  of  the  mighty  mysteries  of  nature,  but  irritated  by 
the  love  of  system  prevailing  among  the  learned,  by  whom  so  charm- 
ing a science  has  been  rendered  the  harshest,  most  technical,  and 
most  perplexing  of  all  the  branches  of  natural  history. 

For  a whole  week  he  devoted  himself  to  the  analysis  of  his  flower, 
With  a view  to  classification,  but  without  success.  In  the  chaos  of  so 
many  strange  words,  varying  from  system  to  system,  bewildered  by 
the  vast  and  ponderous  synonymy  which,  like  the  net  of  Vulcan,  over- 
spreads the  beauties  of  botany,  overpowering  them  by  its  weight,  he 
soon  gave  up  the  attempt  ; having  consulted  each  author  in  succes- 
sion for  a clue,  wandering  from  classes  to  orders,  from  orders  to  tribes, 
from  tribes  to  families,  from  families  to  species,  from  species  to  in- 
dividuals, and  losing  all  patience  with  the  blind  guides,  ever  at  vari- 
ance among  themselves  with  respect  to  the  purpose  and  denomina- 
tion of  the  parts  of  organization  in  vegetable  life. 

At  the  close  of  his  investigations,  the  poor  little  flower,  the  last 
upon  the  tree,  examined  petal  by  petal  and  to  the  very  depth  of  her 
calyx,  suddenly  fell  off  one  day" into  the  hand  of  the  operator,  bear- 
ing with  it  Charney’s  hopes  of  inquiry  into  the  progress  of  the  seed, 
the  reproduction  of  his  favorite,  the  maternity  of  the  lovely  Pic- 
ciola  ! 

“ She  shall  have  no  other  title  than  Picciola  !”  cried  Charney. 
“Picciola,  the  flower  of  the  captive.  What  do  I want  to  know 
more  of  her  name  or  nature  ? To  what  purpose  this  idle  thirst  after 
human  knowledge  ?” 

In  a moment  of  petulance,  Charney  even  threw  down  the  vast  heap 
of  folios  which  had  served  to  perplex  him,  when  from  one  of  the 
volumes  came  fluttering  forth  a slip  of  paper  on  which  had  been  re- 
cently inscribed,  in  the  handwriting  of  a woman,  the  following  verse, 
purporting  to  be  a quotation  from  the  Holy  Scriptures  : 

“ Hope  and  bid  thy  neighbor  hope  ; for  behold,  I have  not  for- 
4aken  ye,  and  a day  of  consolation  is  at  hand.,, 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Charney  perused  and  reperused  a hundred  times  a sentence 
which  lie  could  not  but  believe  to  have  been  especially  addressed  to 
himself.  His  correspondent  was  evidently  a woman  ; but  it  grieved 


PICCIOLA. 


94 

him  to  reflect  that  the  only  one  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  real 
acts  of  service,  the  only  woman  who  had  ever  devoted  herself  to  Ins 
cause,  was  still  so  imperfectly  known  to  him  that  he  was  ignorant  of 
the  very  sound  of  her  voice,  and  by  no  means  sure  of  recognizing  her 
person  should  she  present  herself  before  him. 

But  by  what  means  had  Teresa  contrived  to  evade  the  vigilance  of 
his  Argus  in  the  transmission  of  her  letter  ? 

Poor  girl ! afraid  to  compromise  her  father  by  the  mere  mention 
of  his  name  ! Unhappy  father  ! to  whom  he  is  unable  to  afford  con- 
solation by  the  sight  of  the  handwriting  of  his  child  ! 

Often  indeed  had  Charney’s  nights  been  rendered  sleepless  by  the 
idea  of  the  solitary  old  man,  to  whom  he  had  been  the  innocent  cause 
of  such  irreparable  injury,  when  one  night,  as  he  was  lying  awake 
absorbed  in  these  afflicting  recollections,  his  ear  was  struck  by  an  un- 
accustomed sound  in  the  chamber  above  his  own,  which  had  remained 
uninhabited  during  the  whole  period  of  his  confinement  at  Fenes- 
trella. 

Next  morning  Ludovico  entered  his  apartment,  his  countenance 
full  of  meaning,  which  he  vainly  attempted  to  compose  to  its  usual 
vacuity  of  expression. 

“ What  is  the  matter?”  demanded  the  count ; “ has  anything  un- 
usual occurred  in  the  citadel  ?” 

“Nothing  particular,  Signal - Conte ; nothing  of  any  consequence, 
only  we  have  had  a sudden  influx  of  prisoners  ; and  the  chambers  of 
the  northern  and  southern  turrets  being  full,  the  commandant  is 
under  the  necessity  of  placing  another  state  prisoner  in  this  part  of  the 
fortress,  who  must  share  with  you  the  use  of  the  courtyard.  But  this 
need  be  no  hindrance  to  your  pursuits.  We  receive  at  Fenestrella 
only  gentlemen  of  high  consideration— that  is,  1 mean  we  have  no 
thieves  or  robbers  among  our  prisoners.  But  stay,  here  is  the  new- 
comer waiting  to  pay  you  his  visit  of  inauguration.” 

Charney  half  rose  at  this  announcement,  scarcely  knowing  whether 
to  grieve  or  rejoice  at  the  intelligence  ; but  on  turning  to  do  the  hon- 
ors to  his  unexpected  guest,  what  was  his  amazement  to  behold  the 
door  open  for  the  admission  of — Girardi  ! 

After  gazing  upon  each  other  for  a moment  in  silence,  as  if  still 
doubtful  of  the  reality  of  their  good  fortune,  the  hands  of  the  two 
prisoners  were  suddenly  pressed  together  in  mutual  gratulations. 

“Well  and  good,”  cried  Ludovico,  with  a cordial  smile  ; “ no  need, 
I see,  of  a master  of  the  ceremonies  between  you  ; the  acquaintance 
has  been  quickly  made  ;”  and  away  he  went,  leaving  them  to  the  en- 
joyment of  each  other’s  society. 

“ To  whom  are  we  indebted,  I wonder,  for  this  happy  meeting?” 
was  Charney ’s  first  exclamation. 

“To  my  daughter — doubtless  to  my  daughter,”  replied  Girardi. 
“ Every  consolation  of  my  life  reaches  me  through  the  hands  of  my 
Teresa  !” 


PICCIOLA.  95 

“Do  you  know  this  handwriting?”  inquired  Charney,  drawing 
forth  from  his  casket  the  slip  of  paper  he  so  dearly  treasured. 

“ It  is  Teresa’s  !”  cried  Girardi  ; “ it  is  the  writing  of  my  child  ! 
She  has  not  neglected  us,  nor  have  her  promises  been  tardy  in  their 
accomplishment.  But  how  did  this  letter  reach  your  hands  ?” 

The  count  related  all  the  circumstances,  then  carelessly  put  forth 
his  hand  to  receive  back  the  slip  of  paper  ; but  perceiving  that  the 
poor  old  man  silently  detained  it,  perusing  it  word  by  word,  letter 
by  letter,  and  raising  it  a thousand  times  with  trembling  hands  to  his 
lips,  he  saw  that  the  pledge  was  lost  to  him  forever,  and  experi- 
enced a regret  at  the  loss  which  appeared  almost  unaccountable. 

After  the  first  moments  passed  in  conjectures  concerning  Teresa, 
and  the  spot  where  she  was  likely  to  have  taken  refuge,  Girardi  began 
to  examine  the  lodgings  of  his  new  friend,  and  gravely  proceeded  to 
decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  wall.  Two  among  them  had  been 
already  modified  ; and  the  old  man  could  readily  discern  in  this  re- 
cantation the  influence  exercised  by  Picciola  over  her  votary.  One 
of  the  maxims  of  Charney  ran  as  follows  : “ Mankind  maintain  upon 
the  surface  of  the  earth  the  position  they  will  one  day  hold  below  it, 
side  by  side,  without  a single  bond  of  union.  Physically  considered, 
the  world  is  a mob,  where  millions  meet  and  jostle  together  ; morally 
speaking,  it  is  a solitary  wilderness.” 

To  this  withering  sentence  the  hand  of  Girardi  added,  “ Unless  to 
him  who  has  a friend .”  Then  turning  to  his  young  companion,  the 
old  man  extended  his  arms  toward  him,  and  a mutual  embrace  sealed 
between  them  a compact  of  eternal  friendship. 

Next  day  they  dined  together  in  the  camera  of  the  count ; Char- 
ney seated  upon  the  bed  and  his  venerable  guest  upon  the  chair,  the 
sculptured  table  between  them  being  covered  with  double  rations, 
viz.,  a fine  trout  from  the  lake  of  Avigliano,  crayfish  from  the 
Cenise,  a bottle  of  excellent  Mondovi  wine,  and  a piece  of  the  cele- 
brated Millesimo  cheese,  known  over  Italy  under  the  name  of  rubi- 
ola.  The  feast  was  a noble  one  for  a prison,  but  Girardi ’s  purse 
was  richly  replenished,  and  the  commandant  willing  to  sanction  every 
accommodation  which  Ludovico  could  afford  to  the  two  prisoners, 
within  the  letter  of  his  instructions  from  headquarters. 

Never  had  Charney  more  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  pleasures  of  the 
table.  The  happiest  spirit  of  social  intercourse  was  already  estab- 
lished between  them.  If  exercise  and  the  waters  of  the  Eurotas  im- 
parted a zest  to  the  black  broth  of  the  Lacedaemonians,  how  much 
more  the  presence  and  conversation  of  a friend  to  the  flavor  of  the 
choice  viands  of  Piedmont ! 

Their  hearts  expanded  with  the  sense  of  enjoyment.  Without 
scruple,  without  preamble,  but  as  if  in  fulfilment  of  the  sacred  en- 
gagements conveyed  in  their  promises  of  friendship,  Charney  began 
to  relate  the  presumptuous  studies  and  idle  vanities  of  his  youth, 
while  Girardi,  by  way  of  encouragement  to  his  candor,  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  avow  the  early  errors  of  liis  own. 


96 


PICCIOLA. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Girardi  was  a native  of  Turin,  in  which  city  his  progenitors  had 
established  a considerable  manufactory  of  arms.  From  time  imme- 
morial Piedmont  has  afforded  a medium  for  the  transmission  of  opin- 
ions and  merchandise  from  Italy  to  France,  and  a medium  for  the 
transmission  of  merchandise  and  opinions  from  France  to  Italy  ; 
some  portion  of  each,  of  course,  being  detained  on  the  road.  The 
breezes  of  France  had  breathed  on  Girardi’s  father,  who  was  a philos- 
opher, a reformer,  a disciple  of  Voltaire  ; the  breezes  of  Italy  upon 
his  mother,  who  was  a zealot  to  the  utmost  extent  of  bigotry.  The 
boy,  loving  and  respecting  both  parents,  and  listening  to  both  with 
equal  confidence,  participating  in  both  their  natures,  became  of 
necessity  an  amphibious  moralist  and  politician.  A republican  as 
well  as  a devotee,  he  was  incessantly  projecting  the  union  of  Liberty 
and  Religion — a holy  alliance  which  he  purposed  to  accomplish  after 
a manner  of  his  own.  For  Girardi  was  but  twenty,  and  at  that  period 
people  were  young  at  twenty  years  of  age. 

The  enthusiastic  youth  was  soon  compelled  to  give  pledges  on  both 
sides.  The  Piedmontese  nobility  retained  certain  nobiliary  privileges, 
such  as  an  exclusive  right  to  appear  in  a box  at  the  theatre,  or  to 
dance  at  a public  ball  ; and  dancing  was  held  to  be  an  aristocratic  ex- 
ercise, in  which  the  middle  cl  arses  must  content  themselves  with  the 
part  of  spectators. 

At  the  head  of  a band  of  young  people  of  his  own  age,  Giacomo 
Girardi  chose,  however,  one  day  to  infringe  the  national  rule  estab- 
lished by  his  betters,  and  at  a public  ball  headed  a quadrille  of  un- 
titled dancers,  in  the  very  face  of  the  aristocratic  portion  of  the  as- 
sembly. The  patrician  dancers,  indignant  at  the  innovation,  would 
fain  have  put  a stop  to  the  attempt  ; but  vociferous  cries  of  “ Amuse- 
ment for  all  alike — dancing  for  high  and  low”  were  raised  by  the 
plebeians  ; and  to  this  outbreak  of  sedition  succeeded  other  cries  of 
a liberal  nature.  In  the  tumult  that  ensued,  twenty  challenges  were 
given  and  refused,  not  from  cowardice  but  pride  ; and  the  imprudent 
Giacomo,  carried  away  by  the  impetuosity  of  his  age  and  character, 
ended  with  inflicting  a blow  upon  the  proudest  and  most  insolent  of 
his  adversaries. 

The  unpremeditated  insult  proved  of  serious  moment.  The  influen- 
tial family  of  San  Marsano  swore  that  it  should  not  pass  unpunished  ; 
the  knights  of  St.  Maurice  of  the  Annunciation,  all  the  chivalry  and 
nobility  of  the  country  (which  any  infringement  of  privilege  is  sure 
to  render  unanimous),  affected  to  resent  the  offence  both  individually 
and  collectively.  At  his  father’s  suggestion  the  young  man  took  ref- 
uge with  one  of  his  relations,  vicar  of  a small  village  in  the  princi- 
pality of  Masserano,  in  the  environs  of  Bielle,  and  in  consequence  of 


PICCIOLA.  97 

his  flight  Girardi  was  condemned  as  contumacious  to  five  years’ 
banishment  from  Turin. 

The  dignity  to  which  the  whole  business  was  rashly  elevated  by 
all  this  notoriety,  investing  a boyish  affray  with  the  importance  of  a 
conspiracy,  imparted  considerable  consequence  to  Giacomo  Girardi 
in  the  eyes  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  Some  saluted  him  as  cham- 
pion of  the  liberties  of  the  people,  others  as  one  of  those  dangerous 
innovators  who  still  dreamed  of  restoring  the  independence  of  Pied- 
mont ; but  while  at  the  Court  of  Turin  the  insolent  chastiser  of  no- 
bility was  denounced  as  a leading  member  of  the  democratic  faction, 
the  poor  little  partisan  was  quietly  ministering  to  the  performance  of 
a village  mass,  after  the  fervent  fulfilment  of  his  own  religious 
duties  ! 

This  stormy  commencement  of  a life  which  had  seemed  predes- 
tined to  peace  and  tranquillity  exercised  a powerful  influence  over 
the  fortunes  of  Giacomo  Girardi.  In  his  old  age  he  was  fated  to  pay 
a severe  penalty  for  the  follies  of  his  boyhood,  for  upon  his  arrest  on 
the  groundless  charge  of  having  attempted  the  life  of  the  First  Consul, 
his  accusers  did  not  fail  to  recur  to  his  early  disorders  as  an  evidence 
of  his  dangerous  tendency  as  a disturber  of  the  public  peace. 

But  from  the  moment  of  quitting  Turin,  and  during  the  whole  pe- 
riod of  his  exile,  Giacomo,  indifferent  to  the  love  of  equality  instilled 
into  him  by  his  father,  resigned  himself  to  the  influence  of  the  relig- 
ious principles  derived  from  his  mother.  He  even  carried  them  to 
excess  ; and  his  relative,  the  worthy  priest,  whose  faith  was  sincere, 
but  whose  capacity,  narrow  and  uncultivated,  instead  of  checking  the 
exalted  fervor  of  the  young  enthusiast,  excited  it  to  the  utmost,  in 
the  hope  that  the  loveliness  of  Christian  humility  would  impose  a 
check  upon  the  impetuosity  of  his  character.  But  in  the  sequel  the 
worthy  vicar  repented  the  rashness  of  his  calculations  ; for  Giacomo 
would  hear  of  nothing  now  but  embracing  the  sacerdotal  profession. 
The  wild,  hot-headed  young  man  insisted  on  becoming  a priest  of  the 
altar. 

In  the  hope  of  arresting  a measure  which  would  deprive  them  of 
their  only  son,  his  father  and  mother  got  him  recalled  home,  and 
by  the  utmost  eloquence  of  parental  tenderness  prevailed  upon  him 
to  resign  his  projects  and  acquiesce  in  their  own.  In  a few  months 
Giacomo  Girardi  was  married  to  a beautiful  girl,  selected  for  him  by 
his  family.  But,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  his  friends,  the  young 
fanatic  not  only  persisted  in  regarding  his  lovety  bride  as  an  adopted 
sister,  but  exercised  over  her  mind  so  strong  an  influence  as  to  per- 
suade her  to  retire  into  a convent,  while  he  returned  to  his  pious  call- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  of  Bielle. 

At  a short  distance  from  his  favorite  village  rose  the  last  branch  of 
the  Pennine  Alps — a vast  and  towering  chain  of  mountains,  the 
highest  peak  of  which,  Monte  Mucrone,  overshadowed  a gloomy  lit- 
tle valley,  shaggy  with  overhanging  rocks,  obscured  by  mists,  bor- 


98 


PICCIOLA- 


dered  by  awful  precipices,  and  appearing  at  a distance  to  embody  all 
the  horrors  with  which  Dante  and  Virgil  have  invested  the  entrance 
to  the  infernal  regions.  But  on  drawing  nearer  to  the  detile,  the  im- 
pending rocks  were  found  to  be  clefted  with  verdure,  the  precipices 
to  be  relieved  by  gentle  slopes,  where  flowering  shrubs  afforded  a 
beautiful  ladder  of  vegetation,  interspersed  with  natural  bowers  and 
thickets  ; while  the  mists,  varying  in  hue  according  to  the  reflections 
of  the  sun,  after  becoming  white,  pink,  or  violet,  evaporated  alto- 
gether under  the  influence  of  the  noontide  radiance.  It  was  then 
that,  deep  in  the  lovely  valle}^,  a lake  of  about  five  hundred  feet  in 
length  became  apparent,  alimented  by  crystal  springs  and  giving  rise 
to  the  little  river  called  the  Oroppa,  which  at  some  distance  farther 
encircled  and  formed  into  an  island  one  of  the  verdant  hillocks  of  the 
valley,  on  which  the  piety  of  the  inhabitants  has  erected  at  great  cost 
and  consecrated  to  the  Holy  Virgin  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
churches  in  the  country.  If  the  legend  is  to  be  believed,  St.  Euse- 
bius himself,  on  his  return  from  a pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  de- 
posited there  a wooden  statue  of  the  Virgin,  carved  by  a hand  no  less 
holy  than  that  of  St.  Luke  the  Evangelist,  which  he  was  desirous  of 
securing  from  the  profanations  of  the  Arians. 

In  this  sequestered  vale,  on  the  banks  of  this  lonely  lake,  surrounded 
by  the  shrubby  rocks  and  gentle  precipices — in  this  church,  and  at  the 
foot  of  the  miraculous  statue,  did  Giacomo  Girardi  dream  away  five 
years  of  his  young  existence,  rejecting  the  adoration  of  his  lovely 
bride  for  that  of  the  wooden  lady  of  Oroppa  ! 

Incapable  of  distinguishing  between  credulity  and  faith,  unaware 
that  superstition  may  degenerate  into  idolatry,  that  all  extremes  are 
unacceptable  to  God,  he  little  suspected  that  it  was  not  the  Mary  of 
Scripture,  the  mother  of  the  Redeemer,  to  whom  he  dedicated  his 
prayers,  but  a divinity  of  his  own,  the  tutelary  genius  of  the  place. 
Before  the  miraculous  image  he  passed  his  nights  and  days  in  prayers 
and  tears,  praying  for  a higher  spiritualization  and  weeping  over  im- 
aginary faults.  His  heart  was  that  of  a child,  his  mind  that  of  a 
fanatic.  In  vain  did  the  vicar,  his  worthy  relative,  labor  to  repress 
this  unnatural  fervor  and  bring  him  back  to  reason.  In  vain,  to  dis- 
tract his  thoughts  from  one  fixed  and  dangerous  idea,  did  he  suggest 
a pilgrimage  to  other  spots  of  peculiar  sanctity  dedicated  to  the  wor- 
ship of  the  Virgin.  Giacomo  would  not  hear  of  Our  Lady  of  Loretto 
or  the  Saint  Mary  of  Bologna  or  of  Milan.  He  was  infatuated  by  the 
pretended  virtue  of  a material  image,  a piece  of  black  and  worm- 
eaten  wood,  and  renounced  all  homage  to  its  celestial  prototype. 

The  sentiments  of  the  enthusiast,  if  they  eventually  lost  in  depth, 
gained  only  in  extent.  The  Virgin  of  Oroppa  was  surrounded  by  a 
whole  court  of  saints,  male  and  female,  and  to  each  of  these  the  in- 
fatuated Giacomo  assigned  some  peculiar  duty  of  intercession.  From 
one  he  implored  the  dispersion  of  the  clouds  charged  with  hail- 
showers,  which,  from  the  heights  of  Monte  Mucrome,  sometimes 


PICCIOLA. 


99 


rattled  down  upon  his  beloved  valley.  To  another  he  assigned  the 
task  of  comforting  his  mother  for  his  absence,  and  sustaining  the 
spiritual  weakness  of  his  young  wife.  A third  he  implored  to  watch 
over  him  in  sleep,  a fourth  to  defend  him  against  the  temptations  of 
Satan.  His  devotion,  by  this  means,  degenerated  into  an  impure  poly- 
theism, and  Mount  Oroppa  into  a new  Olympus,  where  every  divinity 
but  the  one  Almighty  God  was  honored  with  a shrine. 

Subjecting  himself  to  the  severest  discipline,  the  most  painful  pri- 
vations, he  continued  to  macerate  himself,  to  fast,  to  remain  whole  days 
without  nourishment  ; and  the  exhaustion  that  ensued  was  qualified 
with  the  name  of  divine  ecstasy  ! He  saw  visions,  he  heard  revela- 
tions. After  the  delusion  of  the  Quietists,  he  fancied  that  by  subju- 
gating his  physical  nature  he  could  develop  and  render  visible  his 
soul.  But  while  resigning  himself  to  this  chimera,  and  holding  im- 
aginary discourse  with  his  immaterial  nature,  Girardi’s  health  gave 
way  and  his  reason  became  disordered. 

One  day  a voice  seemed  to  address  him  from  on  high,  command- 
ing him  to  go  and  convert  the  heretic  Waldenses,  remnants  of  which 
persecuted  sect  still  exist  in  the  Valais.  He  accordingly  set  off,  trav- 
ersed the  country  adjoining  the  river  Sesia,  attained  the  summit  of 
the  Alps  near  Monte  Rosa,  and  there,  suddenly  arrested  in  his 
course  by  the  snow  of  an  early  winter,  found  himself  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  passing  several  months  in  a chalet. 

This  place  of  general  refuge,  designated,  in  the  language  of  the 
country,  las  strablas , or  the  stables,  consisted  of  a vast  shed,  live  hun- 
dred feet  square,  open  toward  the  south,  but  carefully  closed  in  all 
other  directions  by  strong  pine-logs  filled  in  with  moss  and  lichens, 
cemented  into  a mass  by  resinous  gums.  Here,  in  inclement  weath- 
er, men,  women,  children,  flocks,  and  herds,  united  together  as  in 
a common  habitation,  under  the  control  of  the  oldest  member  of  the 
tribe.  A large  hearth,  constantly  supplied  with  fuel,  sparkled  in  the 
centre  of  the  dwelling,  over  which  was  suspended  an  enormous  boil- 
er, in  which,  alternately  or  together,  the  food  of  the  community  was 
prepared,  consisting  of  dried  vegetables,  pork,  mutton,  quarters  of 
chamois  or  cutlets  of  the  flesh  of  the  marmot ; eaten  afterward  at  a 
general  meal  with  bread  made  of  chestnut-meal,  and  a fermented 
liquor  made  from  cranberries  and  whortleberries. 

Occupations  were  not  wanting  in  the  chalet.  The  children  and 
flocks  were  to  be  attended  to,  the  winter  cheeses  to  be  made,  the 
spinning,  wdiicli  was  incessantly  at  wmrk,  and  instruments  of  hus- 
bandry in  progress  of  manufacture,  to  force  into  cultivation,  during 
the  short  summer  season,  the  shallow  soil  of  the  adjacent  rocks. 
Garments  of  sheep-skin  were  also  manufactured,  baskets  of  the  bark 
of  trees,  and  a variety  of  elegant  trifles,  carved  in  sycamore  or  larch- 
wood,  for  sale  in  the  nearest  towns.  The  population  of  the  chalet, 
cheerful  and  laborious,  suffered  not  an  hour  to  pass  unimproved, 
and  songs  and  laughter  intermingled  with  the  strokes  of  the  axe  and 


100 


PICCIOLA. 


busy  murmur  of  the  wheel.  Labor  scarcely  appeared  a task,  and 
study  and  prayer  were  accounted  the  duty  and  recreation  of  the  day. 
Harmonious  and  well -practised  voices  united  in  chorus  for  the  daily 
execution  of  pious  canticles  ; the  elder  shepherds  instructed  the 
young  in  reading  and  arithmetic— nay,  even  in  music  and  a smatter- 
ing of  Latin  ; for  the  civilization  of  the  Higher  Alps,  like  its  vegeta- 
tion, seems  to  be  preserved  under  the  snow  ; and  it  is  no  uncommon 
thing  to  see,  at  the  return  of  spring,  schoolmasters  and  minstrels 
descend  from  the  chalets  to  diffuse  knowledge  and  hilarity  among 
the  agricultural  villages  of  the  plain. 

The  worthy  hosts  of  Giacomo  proved  to  be  Waldenses.  The  op- 
portunity was  an  auspicious  one  for  the  young  apostle  ; but  scarcely 
had  he  let  fall  a word  of  the  purport  of  his  mission  when  the  octo- 
genarian chief  of  the  community,  high  in  the  renown  secured  among 
these  humble  peasants  by  a life  of  industry  and  virtue,  cut  short  his 
expectations. 

“ Our  fathers,”  said  he  to  the  young  man,  “ endured  exile,  perse- 
cution, death,  rather  than  subscribe  to  the  image-worship  practised 
among  your  people.  Hope  not,  therefore,  that  your  feeble  powers 
will  effect  what  centuries  of  persecution  failed  to  accomplish. 
Stranger  ! you  have  found  shelter  under  our  roof,  and  therein,  for 
your  own  safety,  must  abide.  Pray,  therefore,  to  God,  according  to 
the  dictation  of  your  own  conscience,  as  we  do  according  to  ours  ; 
but  be  advised  by  the  experience  of  a graybeard  and  take  part  in  the 
labors  proceeding  around  you,  or  in  this  solitude,  remote  from  the 
rumors  and  excitements  of  social  life,  want  of  occupation  will  de- 
stroy you.  Be  our  companion,  our  brother,  so  long  as  the  winter 
snows  weigh  upon  your  existence  and  our  own,  and  at  the  return  of 
spring  leave  us,  unquestioned  as  you  came,  without  so  much  as  be- 
stowing your  benediction  on  our  hearth  ; nay,  without  even  turning 
back  upon  our  path  to  salute,  by  a farewell  gesture,  those  by  whose 
fire  you  have  been  warmed  and  at  whose  frugal  board  nourished. 
For,  having  shared  their  industry,  you  will  owe  them  nothing.  The 
fruit  of  your  own  labor  will  have  maintained  you  ; and  should  any 
debt  be  still  owing,  the  God  of  mercy  will  repay  us  a thousandfold 
our  hospitality  to  the  son  of  the  stranger.  ’ ’ 

Forced  to  submit  to  a proposition  so  reasonable,  Giacomo  re- 
mained five  months  an  inmate  of  the  chalet  and  an  eye-witness  of  the 
virtuous  career  of  its  inhabitants.  Night  and  morning  he  heard  their 
prayers  and  thanksgivings  offered  up  to  the  throne  of  grace — to  the 
throne  of  the  one  omnipresent  God  ; and  his  mind,  no  longer  excited 
by  the  objects  which  had  wrought  its  exaltation,  became  gradually 
composed  to  a reasonable  frame.  When  the  prison  of  ice  constructed 
for  him  by  nature  ceased  to  hold  him  captive,  and  the  sun,  shining 
out  with  the  return  of  spring,  developed  before  his  eyes  all  the  beauty 
and  majesty  of  the  mountain  scenery  by  which  he  was  surrounded, 
the  idea  of  the  Almighty  Lord  of  the  universe  seemed  to  manifest  it- 


PICCIOLA. 


101 


self  powerfully  to  his  mind  and  resume  its  fitting  influence  on  liis 
heart. 

The  geniality  of  the  weather,  reviving  all  nature  around  him,  with 
her  swarming  myriads  of  birds  and  bees  hovering  over  the  new-born 
flowers,  starting  anew  to  life  from  beneath  their  winter  mantle  of 
snow,  awoke  in  his  bosom  correspondent  transports  of  love  and  joy. 
It  were  vain  to  dilate  on  the  expansion  of  human  feeling  which  gradu 
ally  enlarged  his  perceptions.  The  good  old  chief  had  begun  to  enter- 
tain an  affection  for  him,  and,  though  unlearned  in  pedantic  lore,  had 
stored  up  in  the  course  of  his  long  existence  an  infinity  of  facts  and 
observations,  which,  joined  to  those  inherited  from  the  lessons  of  his 
fathers,  inspired  him  with  knowledge  of  the  Creator  through  the  wis- 
dom of  his  works.  In  a word,  the  presumptuous  youth,  who  had 
entered  that  humble  asylum  for  the  purpose  of  converting  its  people 
to  his  opinions,  eventually  quitted  it  himself  converted  to  their  own  ; 
nay,  the  industrious  habits  he  had  acquired  and  the  examples  of  do- 
mestic happiness  he  had  witnessed  had  brought  him  to  a due  sense  of 
his  error  in  neglecting  the  happiness  and  duties  with  which  Provi- 
dence had  endowed  his  existence. 

Giacomo’s  first  visit,  after  quitting  Monte  Rosa,  was  to  the  convent 
in  which  his  wife  was  immured.  A whole  romance  might  be  devel- 
oped in  the  history  of  his  wooing  and  the  difficulties  with  which  his 
courtship  was  beset.  Suffice  it  that,  after  many  months  devoted  to 
the  obliteration  of  the  lessons  he  had  himself  inculcated,  Girardi, 
aided  by  the  influence  of  his  parents,  succeeded  in  removing  his  wife 
from  the  cloistral  seclusion  to  which  he  had  devoted  her,  and  became 
in  the  sequel  the  happiest  of  husbands  and  of  fathers. 

The  errors  of  his  youth  were  now  redeemed  by  years  of  wisdom 
and  of  virtue.  Established  in  his  native  city  of  Turin,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a handsome  fortune,  the  thriving  speculations  in  which  he 
was  engaged  might  have  rendered  it  colossal  but  for  the  systematic 
benevolence  which  rendered  the  opulence  of  Girardi  a secomLprov- 
idence  to  the  poor.  To  do  good  was  the  occupation  of  his  life  ; his 
favorite  recreation  was  the  study  of  animated  nature.  Girardi  be- 
came a proficient  in  natural  history  ; and  as  God  is  greatest  in  the 
least  of  his  works,  entomology  chiefly  engaged  his  attention.  It  was 
this  interest  in  the  organization  and  habits  of  insects  which  had  ob- 
tained for  him  from  Ludovico,  in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  imprison- 
ment, the  appellation  of  “ The  Fly-catcher.” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  two  prisoners  had  no  longer  any  secrets  from  each  other. 
After  glancing  rapidly  over  the  history  of  their  several  lives,  they  re- 
turned to  the  various  incidents  of  each  and  the  emotions  to  which 


102 


PICCIOLA. 


they  had  given  rise.  They  sometimes  spoke  of  Teresa  ; but  at  the 
very  mention  of  her  name  a vivid  blush  overspread  the  face  of 
Charney,  and  the  old  man  himself  grew  grave  and  sad.  Any  allu- 
sion to  the  absent  angel  was  sure  to  be  followed  by  an  interval  of 
mournful  silence. 

Their  discourse  usually  turned  upon  the  discussion  of  some  point 
of  morality,  or  comments  upon  the  eccentricities  of  human  nature. 
Girardi ’s  philosophy,  mild  and  benevolent,  invested  the  happiness  of 
man  in  the  love  of  his  fellow-creatures  nor  could  Charney,  though 
half  converted  to  his  opinions,  understand  by  what  means  this  spirit 
of  tenderness  and  indulgence  could  survive  the  injuries  which  the 
philosopher  had  endured  from  mankind. 

“Surely/’  said  he,  “you  must  have  bestowed  your  malediction 
on  those  who,  after  basely  calumniating  you,  tore  you  from  the  bosom 
of  domestic  happiness,  from  the  arms  of — your  daughter.” 

“ The  offence  of  a few,”  replied  Girardi,  “ was  not  to  subvert  my 
principles  of  action  toward  the  whole.  Even  those  few,  blinded  by 
political  fanaticism,  fancied  they  were  fulfilling  a duty.  Trust  me, 
my  young  friend,  it  is  indispensable  to  survey  even  the  injuries  we 
receive  through  a medium  of  pardon  and  pity.  Which  of  us  has  not 
required  forgiveness  for  a fault  ? Which  of  us  has  not,  in  his  turn, 
mistaken  error  for  the  truth  ? St.  John  bequeathed  to  us  the  blessed 
axiom  that  God  is  love  ! True  and  beautiful  proposition,  since  by 
love  alone  the  soul  re-elevates  itself  to  its  celestial  source,  and  finds 
courage  for  the  endurance  of  misfortune.  Had  I entered  into  cap- 
tivity with  a particle  of  hatred  in  my  soul  against  my  fellow -creat- 
ures, I should  have  expired  in  my  embittered  loneliness.  But, 
Heaven  be  praised.  I have  never  been  the  prey  of  a single  painful  re- 
flection. The  recollection  of  my  good  and  faithful  friends,  whose 
hearts  I knew  were  suffering  with  every  suffering  of  my  own,  served 
to  stimulate  my  affection  toward  mankind,  and  the  only  unlucky 
moment  of  my  captivity  was  that  in  which  I was  debarred  the  sight 
of  a fellow-creature.” 

“ How  !”  cried  Charney,  “ were  you  ever  subjected  to  such  a dep- 
rivation ?” 

“ At  my  first  arrest,”  resumed  Girardi,  “ I was  transported  to  a 
dungeon  in  the  citadel  of  Turin,  so  framed  as  to  render  communica- 
tion impossible  even  with  my  jailer.  My  food  was  conveyed  to  me 
by  a turning-box  inserted  in  the  wall  ; and  during  a whole  month 
not  the  slightest  sound  interrupted  the  stillness  of  my  solitude.  It 
needs  to  have  undergone  all  I then  experienced  fully  to  comprehend 
the  fallacy  of  that  savage  philosophy  which  denied  society  to  be  the 
natural  condition  of  the  human  species.  The  wretch  condemned  to 
isolation  from  his  kind  is  a wretch  indeed  ! To  hear  no  human 
voice,  to  meet  no  human  eye,  to  be  denied  the  pressure  of  a human 
hand,  to  find  only  cold  and  inanimate  objects  on  which  to  rest  one’s 
brow,  one’s  breast,  one’s  heart,  is  a privation  to  which  the  strongest 


PICCIOLA. 


103 


might  fall  a victim  ! The  month  I thus  endured  weighed  like  years 
upon  my  nature  ; and  when,  every  second  day,  I discerned  the  foot- 
steps of  my  jailer  in  the  corridor,  coming  to  renew  my  provisions,  the 
mere  sound  caused  my  heart  to  leap  within  me.  While  the  box  was 
turning  round  I used  to  strain  my  eyes  in  hopes  to  catch,  at  the 
•re vice,  the  slightest  glimpse  of  his  face,  his  hand,  his  very  dress  ; 
a*d  my  disappointment  drove  me  to  despair.  Could  I have  discerned 
a human  face,  even  bearing  the  characters  of  cruelty  or  wickedness, 
I should  have  thought  it  full  of  beauty  ; and  had  the  man  extended 
his  arms  toward  me  in  kindness,  have  blessed  him  for  the  conces- 
sion. But  the  sight  of  a human  face  was  denied  me  till  the  day  of 
my  translation  to  Fenestrella,  and  my  only  resource  consisted  in 
feeding  the  reptiles  which  shared  my  captivity,  and  in  meditating 
upon  my  absent  child.” 

Charney  started  at  the  allusion  ; but  his  venerable  companion  was 
himself  too  much  distressed  to  notice  the  emotion  of  his  young 
friend. 

“ At  length,”  said  he  after  a long  pause,  which  served  to  restore 
him  to  his  usual  serenity,  “ a favorable  change  befell  me  even  in  my 
dungeon.  I discovered,  by  means  of  a straggling  ray  of  light,  a 
crevice  produced  by  the  insertion  of  an  iron  cross  by  way  of  support 
into  the  walls  of  my  dungeon,  which,  though  it  enabled  me  to  obtain 
only  an  oblique  glimpse  of  the  opposite  wall,  became  a source  of  ex- 
quisite enjoyment.  My  cell  happened  to  be  situated  under  the  keep 
of  the  citadel  ; and,  one  blessed  day,  I noticed  for  the  first  time  the 
shadow  of  a man  distinctly  reflected  upon  the  wall.  A sentinel  had 
doubtless  been  posted  on  the  platform  over  my  head,  for  the  shadow 
went  and  came,  and  I could  distinguish  the  form  of  the  man’s  uni- 
form, the  epaulet,  the  knapsack,  the  point  of  his  bayonet,  the  very 
vacillation  of  his  feather. 

“ Till  evening  extinguished  my  resource,  I remained  at  my  post  ; 
and  how  shall  I describe  the  thrill  of  joy  with  which  I acknowledged 
so  unexpected  a consolation  ! I was  no  longer  alone  : I had  once  more 
a living  companion  ! Next  day  and  the  days  succeeding  the  shadow 
of  another  soldier  appeared  ; the  sentinels  were  ever  changing,  but  my 
enjoyment  was  the  same.  It  was  always  a man,  always  a fellow - 
creature  I knew  to  be  near  me — a living,  breathing  fellow-creature, 
whose  movements  I could  watch  and  whose  dispositions  conjecture. 
When  the  moment  came  for  relieving  guard,  I welcomed  the  new- 
comer and  bade  good-by  to  his  predecessor.  I knew  the  corpora] 
by  sight ; I could  recognize  the  different  profiles  of  the  men  ; nay, 
(dare  I avow  such  a weakness  ?)  some  among  them  were  objects  of 
my  predilection.  The  attitude  of  their  persons  or  comparative 
vivacity  of  their  movements  became  so  many  indications  of  charac- 
ter, from  which  their  age  and  sentiments  might  be  inferred.  One 
paced  gayly  along,  turning  lightly  on  his  heel,  balancing  his  musket 
in  sport  or  waving  his  head  in  cadence  to  the  air  he  was  whistling  ; 

M.  c— 13 


104 


PICCIOLA. 


Tie  was  doubtless  young  and  gay,  cheered  by  visions  of  happiness  and 
love.  Another  paced  along  with  his  brow  inclining,  pausing  often, 
and  leaning  with  his  arms  crossed  upon  his  musket,  meditating 
mournfully,  perhaps,  upon  his  distant  village,  his  absent  mother,  his 
childhood’s  friends.  He  passed  his  hand  rapidly  over  his  eyes — per- 
haps to  dash  away  the  tears  gathered  by  these  tender  retrospections. 

“ For  many  of  these  shadows  I felt  a lively  interest,  an  inexplicable 
compassion  ; and  the  balm  thus  called  into  existence  within  my 
bosom  shed  its  soothing  influence  over  my  fate.  Trust  me,  my  good 
young  friend,  the  truest  happiness  is  that  we  derive  from  our  sympa- 
thy with  our  fellow-creatures.  ” 

“ Why,  why  did  I not  become  earlier  acquainted  with  you,  excel- 
lent man?”  cried  Charney,  deeply  affected.  “ How  different,  then, 
had  been  the  tenor  of  my  life  ! But  what  right  have  I to  complain  ? 
Have  I not  found  in  this  desolated  spot  all  that  was  denied  me  amid 
the  splendor  of  the  world  ? — a devoted  heart,  a noble  soul,  an  anchor 
of  strength,  virtue  and  truth,  Girardi  and  Picciola?” 

For  among  ail  these  effusions  of  the  heart,  Picciola  was  not  forgot- 
ten. The  two  friends  had  constructed  a more  capacious  seat  beside 
her,  where,  side  by  side  and  facing  the  lovely  plant,  they  passed  hour 
after  hour  together,  all  three  in  earnest  conversation.  Charney  had 
given  to  this  new  seat  the  name  of  “ The  Bench  of  Conference.” 
There  did  the  simple-minded  Girardi  aspire  for  once  to  eloquence  ; 
for  without  eloquence  in  the  expositor,  no  conviction.  Nor  were 
either  eloquence  or  conviction  wanting. 

The  bench  had  become  the  rostrum  of  a professor — a professor, 
though  less  learned  than  his  scholar,  infinitely  wiser  and  more 
enlightened.  The  professor  is  Giacomo  Girardi,  the  pupil  the  Count 
de  Charney,  and  the  book  in  process  of  exposition,  Picciola. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

As  autumn  approached,  Charney  could  not  forbear  expressing  to 
his  friend,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  Bench  of  Conference,  his  regret 
at  losing  all  hope  of  Picciola’s  second  flowering,  and  his  lamentations 
over  her  last  blossom. 

Girardi  immediately  attempted  to  supply  the  loss  by  a dissertation 
on  the  fructification  of  plants,  and  the  evidence  thereby  afforded  of 
the  intervention  of  an  all- wise  Providence. 

Girardi  first  alluded  to  the  winged  form  of  the  seeds  of  certain 
plants,  whose  foliage,  large  and  complicated,  would  oppose  their  dis, 
persion  but  for  the  feathery  tuft  attached  to  each,  which  causes  them 
to  float  in  the  atmosphere  ; and  described  the  elastic  pods  in  which 
others  are  inclosed,  which,  opening  by  a sudden  spring  at  the  mo. 


PICCIOLA. 


105 


ment  of  maturity,  discharge  the  seed  to  a distance.  “ These  wings, 
these  springs,”  observed  the  old  man,  “ are  hands  and  feet  bestowed 
upon  them  by  the  Almighty  that  they  may  reach  their  destined  place 
and  germinate  in  the  sunshine.  What  human  eye,  for  instance,” 
said  he,  “ is  able  to  follow,  in  their  aerial  flight,  the  membraneous 
seeds  of  the  elm,  the  maple,  the  pine,  the  ash,  circling  in  the  atmos- 
phere amid  volumes  of  other  seeds,  rising  by  their  own  buoyancy, 
and  apparently  flying  in  search  of  the  birds,  of  which  they  are  to 
form  the  nourishment?” 

The  old  man  next  proceeded  to  explain  the  phenomena  of  aquatic 
plants  ; how  the  seeds  of  those  destined  for  the  adornment  of  brooks, 
or  the  banks  of  lakes  or  ponds,  are  endowed  with  a form  enabling 
them  to  float  upon  the  water,  so  as  to  deposit  themselves  in  various 
parts  of  the  beach,  or  cross  from  one  bank  to  another  ; while  such  as 
are  intended  to  take  root  in  the  bed  of  the  river  fall  at  once  by  their 
own  weight  to  the  bottom,  and  give  birth  to  reeds  and  rushes,  or 
those  beautiful  water-lilies  whose  roots  are  in  the  mud  beneath, 
while  their  large,  green  shining  leaves  and  snow-white  blossoms  float 
in  pride  and  glory  upon  the  bosom  of  the  waters.  The  vallisneria 
was  not  forgotten,  the  male  and  female  plants  of  which  being  dis- 
united, the  former  uncoils  her  long  spiral  peduncle  to  raise  her  flower 
above  the  surface  of  the  stream,  while  the  male,  unpossessed  of  a 
similar  faculty,  breaks  its  fragile  flower-stalk  and  rises  spontaneously 
to  the  surface,  to  accomplish  the  act  of  fecundation. 

“How  is  it,”  cried  Charney,  “that  men  remain  insensible  to  the 
existence  of  these  wondrous  prodigies  of  nature  ?” 

And  the  old  man  rejoiced  at  the  exclamation,  as  a proof  that  his 
lessons  were  not  shed  upon  a barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

“Tell  me,”  demanded  the  count,  “has  the  insect  creation,  to 
which  your  studies  have  been  peculiarly  addressed,  furnished  you 
with  facts  as  curious  as  those  for  which  I am  indebted  to  my  Picci- 
ola?” 

“ So  curious,”  replied  Girardi,  “ that  you  will  not  fully  appreciate 
even  the  marvels  of  Picciola  till  you  have  become  acquainted  with 
the  hosts  of  animated  beings  which  hover  over  her  verdant  branches. 
You  will  then  learn  to  admire  the  secret  laws  which  connect  the 
plant  with  the  insect,  the  insect  with  the  plant,  and  perceive  that 
‘ order  is  Heaven’s  first  law,’  and  that  one  vast  intelligence  influences 
the  whole  creation.” 

Girardi  was  proceeding  to  enlarge  upon  the  harmony  of  the  uni- 
verse, when,  pausing  suddenly,  he  pointed  out  to  his  companion  a 
brilliant  and  beautiful  butterfly  poised  on  one  of  the  twigs  of  his 
plant,  with  a peculiar  quivering  of  the  wings.  “ See  !”  cried  he, 
‘ Picciola  hastens  to  expound  my  theory  ! An  engagement  has  just 
been  contracted  between  her  and  yonder  insect,  which  is  now  con- 
signing its  posterity  to  her  guardianship.” 

And  when  the  butterfly  flew  away,  Charney  verified  the  assertion 


106 


PICCIOLA. 


by  examining  a little  group  of  eggs,  attached  by  a viscous  substance 
to  the  bark. 

“Do  you  imagine,”  inquired  Girardi,  “that  it  is  by  chance  the 
butterfly  has  proceeded  hither  to  intrust  to  Picciola  this  precious  de- 
posit ? On  the  contrary,  Nature  has  assigned  to  every  plant  analo- 
gies with  certain  insects.  Every  plant  has  its  insects  to  lodge,  its  in- 
sects to  feed.  Admire  the  long  chain  of  connection  between  them. 
This  butterfly,  when  a caterpillar,  was  nourished  on  the  substance 
of  a plant  of  the  same  species  as  Picciola,  and  after  undergoing  its 
appointed  transformations  and  become  a butterfly,  it  fluttered  faith- 
less from  flower  to  flower,  sipping  the  sweets  of  a thousand  different 
nectaries.  But  no  sooner  did  the  moment  of  maturity  arrive  for  a 
creature  that  never  beheld  its  mother,  and  will  never  behold  its  chil- 
dren (for,  its  task  fulfilled,  it  is  now  about  to  die),  than  by  an  instinct 
surer  than  the  best  lessons  of  experience,  it  flew  hither  to  deposit  its 
progeny  on  a plant  similar  to  that  by  which,  under  a different  form 
and  in  a different  season,  it  was  fed  and  protected.  Instinctively 
conscious  that  little  caterpillars  will  emerge  from  its  eggs,  it  forgets 
for  their  sake  the  habits  it  has  acquired  as  a butterfly. 

“Who  taught  her  all  this?  Who  endowed  her  with  memory, 
powers  of  reasoning,  and  recognizing  the  peculiarities  of  a vegetable 
whose  present  foliage  bears  no  resemblance  to  that  which  it  bore  dur- 
ing the  spring  ? The  most  experienced  botanist  is  often  mistaken — 
the  insect  never  !” 

Charney  involuntarily  testified  his  surprise. 

“ You  have  still  more  to  learn,”  interrupted  Girardi.  “ Examine 
the  branch  selected  by  the  insect.  It  is  one  of  the  largest  and 
strongest  on  the  tree,  not  one  of  the  new  shoots,  likely  to  be  de- 
cayed by  frost  during  the  winter  or  broken  by  the  wind.  All 
this  has  been  foreseen  by  the  insect.  Whence  did  it  derive  such 
prescience  ?” 

“ Do  you  not  in  some  degree  deceive  yourself,  my  dear  friend  ?” 
demanded  Charney,  unwilling  to  avow  how  much  he  was  confounded 
by  these  discoveries. 

“ Peace,  sceptic,  peace  !”  replied  the  old  man,  with  an  accusing 
smile.  “You  will  admit,  at  least,  that  seeing  is  believing  ? Picciola 
has  now  her  part  to  play.  The  foresight  of  the  insect  is  not  greater 
than  that  with  which  nature  endows  the  plant  toward  the  legacy  be- 
queathed by  the  butterfly  ; at  the  return  of  spring  we  will  verify  the 
prodigy  together.  The  moment  the  plant  puts  forth  its  leaves,  the 
tiny  eggs  will  break  and  emit  the  larvae  they  contain  ; a law  of  har- 
mony regulates  the  vegetation  of  the  plant  in  common  with  the  vital- 
ity of  the  insect.  Were  the  larvae  to  appear  first,  there  would  be  no 
food  for  them  ; were  the  leaves  to  precede  them,  they  would  have 
acquired  too  firm  a consistency  for  their  feeble  powers.  But  Nature, 
provident  over  all,  causes  both  plant  and  insect  to  develop  themselves 
at  the  same  moment,  to  grow  together,  and  together  attain  their  ma- 


PICCIOLA. 


107 


turity  ; so  that  the  wings  and  flowers  of  each  are  simultaneous  in 
their  display  of  beauty.  ’ ’ 

“Another  lesson  derived  from  my  gentle  Picciola!”  murmured 
the  astonished  Charney,  and  conviction  entered  into  his  soul. 

Thus  passed  the  days  of  the  captives,  in  mutual  solace  and  instruc- 
tion ; and  when,  every  evening,  the  hour  arrived  for  retreating  singly 
into  the  camera  of  each  to  wait  the  hour  of  rest,  the  same  object  un- 
consciously occupied  their  meditations,  for  Charney  thought  of 
Teresa,  and  Girardi  of  his  daughter,  exhausting  their  minds  in  cc  n- 
jecture  as  to  her  present  destiny. 

The  young  girl  herself,  meanwhile,  was  not  inactive  on  their  be- 
half. Her  first  impulse  had  been  to  follow  the  emperor  to  Milan, 
where  Teresa  soon  discovered  that  it  is  as  difficult  to  penetrate 
through  the  antechamber  of  royalty  as  through  the  ranks  of  an  army. 
The  friends  of  Girardi,  however,  roused  by  her  efforts,  renewed  their 
applications  ; and  having  undertaken  to  procure  at  no  remote  period 
the  liberation  of  the  captive,  his  daughter,  somewhat  reassured,  re- 
turned to  Turin,  where  an  asylum  was  offered  her  in  the  house  of  a 
near  relation. 

The  husband  of  this  relative  happened  to  be  the  librarian  of  the 
city,  and  to  him  did  Menon  address  himself  to  select  the  botanical 
works  destined  for  the  use  of  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella.  It  was  no 
difficult  matter  for  Teresa  to  infer,  from  the  nature  of  the  study,  to 
whom  those  books  were  destined  ; and  she  accordingly  managed  to 
slip  into  one  of  the  volumes  the  mysterious  dispatch,  which  even,  if 
discovered  by  the  commandant,  was  not  of  a nature  to  compromise 
either  her  relation  or  the  protege  in  whose  behalf  she  had  already  ad- 
ventured so  largely.  She  was  still  ignorant  that  her  father  and 
Charney  no  longer  resided  in  each  other’s  neighborhood  ; and  when 
the  news  of  their  separation  was  brought  back  by  the  messenger  em- 
ployed to  convey  the  books  to  Fenestrella,  it  became  her  first  object 
to  accomplish  the  reunion  of  the  two  captives. 

After  addressing  letter  after  letter  on  the  subject  to  the  governor  of 
Piedmont,  she  continued  to  interest  in  her  behalf  some  of  the  chief 
inhabitants  of  Turin,  and,  through  them,  the  wife  of  Menon  ; till  the 
general,  having  strong  motives  for  desiring  to  conciliate  his  influen- 
tial petitioners,  ended  by  granting  the  prayer  of  Teresa  Girardi. 
And  when,  under  the  auspices  of  Madame  Menon,  she  came  to  offer 
her  grateful  thanks  to  the  general,  the  veteran,  touched  by  the  de- 
votedness of  her  filial  tenderness,  laying  aside  for  a moment  the 
harshness  of  his  nature,  took  the  young  girl  kindly  by  the  arm  as  he 
addressed  her. 

“You  must  come  and  visit  my  wife  from  time  to  time,”  said  he. 
“ In  about  a month’s  time  she  may  have  good  news  to  tell  you.” 

And  Teresa,  nothing  doubting  that  the  good  news  would  consist  in 
an  order  for  her  readmission  'into  the  fortress  of  Fenestrella  to  pass  a 
portion  of  every  day  with  her  father,  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  the 


108 


PICCIOLA. 


general  with  a countenance  bright  with  joy,  loading  him  with  grate- 
ful acknowledgments. 

While  all  this  was  proceeding  undreamed  of  by  the  two  captives, 
Charney  and  Girard!  sat  enjoying  on  their  bench  a glorious  October 
sunshine,  restoring,  or  rather  forestalling  around  them  the  warmth  and 
promise  of  spring.  Both  were  pensive  and  silent,  leaning  severally 
on  the  opposite  arms  which  closed  in  the  rustic  seat.  They  might 
have  passed  for  being  estranged  or  indifferent  to  each  other,  but  for 
the  wistful  looks  cast  from  time  to  time  by  Charney  upon  his  com- 
panion, who  was  absorbed  in  a profound  reverie.  It  was  not  often 
that  the  countenance  of  Girardi  was  overshadowed  by  sadness  ; no 
wonder,  therefore,  that  the  count  should  mistake  the  motives  of  his 
depression. 

“ Yes,”  cried  he,  replying,  as  he  fancied,  to  the  looks  of  his 
friend,  “captivity  is  indeed  a purgatory— to  be  imprisoned  for  an 
imaginary  offence,  to  live  apart  from  all  we  love.” 

But  ere  he  could  proceed,  Girardi,  raising  his  head,  gazed  with 
surprise  upon  the  count.  “ True,  my  dear  friend,”  he  replied. 
“ Separation  is  one  of  the  severest  trials  of  human  fortitude.” 

“ 1 your  friend!”  interrupted  Charney,  with  bitterness.  “Have 
you  the  charity  to  bestow  such  a name  upon  me — upon  me,  who  am 
the  cause  of  your  being  parted  from  her? — for  it  is  of  your  daughter 
you  are  thinking.  Deny  it  not.  Teresa  is  the  object  of  these 
mournful  meditations  ; and  at  such  a moment  how  odious  must  I be 
in  your  sight  !” 

“ Believe  me,  you  are  mistaken  in  your  conjectures,”  mildly  in- 
terrupted the  venerable  man.  “ Never  was  the  image  of  my  daugh- 
ter invested  with  such  consolatory  associations  as  to-day.  For 
Teresa  has  written  to  me — I have  received  a letter  from  my  child.” 

“ Written  to  you — you  have  a letter  from  her — they  have  suffered 
it  to  reach  your  hands?”  cried  Charney,  insensibly  drawing  nearer  to 
his  companion.  Then  checking  his  exultation,  he  added,  “ But  you 
have,  doubtless,  learned  some  afflicting  tidings  ?” 

“ Far  from  it,  I assure  you.” 

“ Wherefore,  then,  this  depression?” 

“ Alas  ! my  dear  friend,  such  is  the  frailty  of  human  nature,  such 
the  mingled  yarn  of  human  destiny  ! A regret  is  sure  to  embitter  our 
sweetest  hopes.  The  happiness  of  this  life  casts  its  shadow  before, 
and  it  is  by  the  shadow  that  our  attention  is  first  attracted.  You 
spoke  of  separation  from  those  we  love.  Here  is  my  letter.  Read 
it,  and  learn  what  considerations  depress  my  spirits  while  seated  by 
your  side.” 

Charney  took  the  letter,  and  for  some  moments  held  it  unopened  in 
his  hand  : his  eyes  fixed  on  the  countenance  of  Girardi,  he  seemed 
desirous  of  reading  there  the  intelligence  it  contained.  On  examining 
the  address,  he  recognized  with  emotion  the  handwriting  of  his  pre- 
cious billet,  and  at  length,  unfolding  the  paper,  attempted  to  read 


PICCIOLA. 


109 


aloud  the  contents.  But  his  voice  faltered,  the  words  expired  upon 
his  lips,  and,  stopping  short,  he  concluded  the  letter  almost  inaudi- 
bly  to  himself. 

“ ‘ Dearest  father,’  ” wrote  Teresa,  “ ‘ bestow  a thousand  kisses 
upon  the  paper  you  hold  in  your  hands  ; for  a thousand  and  a thou- 
sand have  I impressed  upon  it  as  a harvest  for  your  venerated  lips  ! 

“ ‘ What  joy  for  us  both,  this  renewal  of  correspondence  ! It  is  to 
General  Menon  we  are  indebted  for  the  concession  ; he  it  is  who  lias 
put  an  end  to  a silence  which,  even  more  than  distance,  seemed  to 
keep  us  asunder.  Blessings  be  upon  him  ! Now,  dear  father,  our 
thoughts,  at  least,  may  fly  toward  each  other  ; I shall  communicate 
my  hopes  to  sustain  your  courage  ; you , your  griefs,  in  weeping  over 
which  I shall  fancy  I am  weeping  in  your  presence  ! But  if  a greater 
happiness,  -dearest  father,  were  in  reserve  for  us  ! For  a moment,  I 
beseech  you,  lay  aside  my  letter  and  summon  your  strength  to  hear 
the  sudden  joy  I am  about  to  excite  in  your  bosom.  Father  ! if  I 
were  once  more  permitted  to  be  with  you,  to  approach  you,  to  listen 
to  your  instruction,  to  surround  you  with  my  attentions  ! Through- 
out the  two  years  in  which  we  enjo}Ted  this  alleviation  of  our  afflic- 
tion, captivity  seemed  to  sit  lightly  on  your  spirits  ; and  I entertain 
the  hope — yes,  the  earnest,  earnest  hope— that  the  favor  will  be  again 
vouchsafed  me — that  I shall  be  once  more  permitted  to  enter  your 
prison  ! ’ ” 

“ Teresa  about  to  visit  you  ! here  in  the  fortress  !”  cried  Cbarney, 
wild  with  joy. 

“ Read  on  !”  replied  the  old  man,  in  a melancholy  tone  ; “ read 
on  !” 

“ ‘ I shall  be  once  more  permitted  to  enter  your  prison,’  ” resumed 
Charney,  repeating  the  last  sentence.  “ ‘ Are  you  not  happy  in  such  a 
prospect?  Are  you  not  overjoyed?’  ” continued  Teresa.  “ ‘ Pause 
a moment  to  consider  the  good  tidings  I have  thus  announced  ! Do 
not  hurry  on  toward  the  conclusion  of  my  letter.  Violent  emotions 
are  sometimes  dangerous.  Have  I not  already  said  enough?  Were 
an  angel  to  descend  from  heaven,  charged  with  the  accomplishment 
of  our  wishes,  you  would  not  presume  to  require  more  ; but  I,  your 
child,  might  venture,  ere  he  reascended  to  his  native  skies — I might 
be  tempted  to  implore  your  liberation  from  captivity.  At  your  age, 
father,  it  is  a cruel  thing  to  be  denied  the  sight  of  your  native  coun- 
try. The  banks  of  our  beloved  Doria  are  so  beautiful  ! and  in  our 
gardens  on  the  Collina,  the  trees  planted  by  my  poor  mother  and 
brother  have  acquired  surprising  growth  during  your  absence. 
There,  more  than  on  any  other  spot,  survives  the  precious  memory  of 
those  we  have  lost. 

Then,  father,  there  are  your  friends — the  friends  who  have  sup- 
ported, by  their  generous  efforts,  my  applications  to  government — I 
am  sure  you  regret  your  absence  from  them  ; I am  sure  you  would 
delight  in  seeing  them  again.  Oh,  father,  father  ! the  pen  seems  to 


110 


PICCIOLA. 


burn  in  my  hand  ! My  secret  is  about  to  escape  me  ! It  has,  proba- 
bly, already  escaped  me  ! You  have,  doubtless,  summoned  all  your 
courage  to  learn  definitively  that  in  a few  days  I am  about  to  rejoin 
you,  not  to  lend  my  aid  in  softening  your  captivity,  but  to  announce 
its  termination  ; not  to  be  with  you  at  stated  hours,  and  within  the 
walls  of  a prison,  but  to  carry  you  away  with  me  in  triumph  from 
Fenestrella — free,  proud  ! ay,  proud  ! — for  you  have  now  a right  to  re- 
sume your  pride.  Your  faithful  friends  Cotenna  and  Delarue  did 
not  rest  till  they  obtained,  not  your  pardon,  but  your  justification. 
Yes,  your  innocence  is  fully  recognized  by  the  imperial  government. 

“ ‘ Farewell,  dearest  and  best  of  fathers.  How  I love  you  ! how 
happy  do  I feel  at  this  moment  ! and  how  much  happier  shall  I be 
when  again  folded  in  your  arms  ! Your  own  Teresa.’  ” 

The  letter  did  not  contain  a single  word  in  reference  to  Charney. 
That  word — that  hoped-for  word — how  eagerly  did  he  seek  for  it  in 
every  page  and  line  ! how  eagerly  and  how  vainly  ! Yet,  notwith- 
standing his  disappointment,  it  was  a cry  of  joy  that  burst  from  the 
lips  of  the  count  when  he  concluded  the  letter. 

“You  will  soon  be  free!”  cried  he;  “soon  able  to  rest  under 
the  shadow  of  green  trees,  and  behold  the  rising  of  the  sun  !” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  old  man.  “ But  1 am  also  about  to  leave  you  ! 
Such  is  the  shadow  which  precedes  my  happiness  to-day,  to  prevent 
my  joy  from  falling  into  excess.” 

“ Think  not  of  me,  I beseech  you  !”  cried  Charney,  proving  by  his 
generous  transports  and  forgetfulness  of  self  how  truly  he  deserved 
the  friendship  of  which  he  was  the  object.  ‘ 4 At  last  you  will  be 
restored  to  her  arms  ! At  last  she  will  cease  to  suffer  from  the  conse- 
quences of  my  rashness  ! You  will  be  happy,  and  I no  longer  op- 
pressed by  the  heaviness  of  remorse.  During  the  last  few  hours  that 
remain  for  us  to  be  together,  we  may  at  least  talk  of  her  unre- 
servedly. ” 

And  as  he  uttered  these  last  incoherent  words,  the  Count  de  Char- 
ney threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  his  venerable  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  knowledge  of  their  approaching  separation  seemed  only  to 
augment  the  tender  affection  existing  between  the  two  friends.  Sel- 
dom an  hour  apart,  both  seemed  eager  to  continue  till  the  last  mo- 
ment their  conferences  on  the  bench  of  the  little  court. 

There  was  a solemn  subject,  to  which  Girardi  often  endeavored  to 
lead  the  way,  but  Charney  invariably  evaded  the  discussion.  The 
old  man  was,  however,  too  deeply  interested  in  sounding  the  opin- 


PICCIOLA. 


Ill 


ions  of  the  count  to  be  easily  discouraged  ; and  one  day  an  occasion 
unexpectedly  presented  itself  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  wishes. 

“How  unaccountable  the  chance,”  cried  Charney,  after  a short 
silence,  “ which  united  us  in  this  place  ; naturally  divided  as  we  are 
by  difference  of  birthplace,  of  language,  of  faith,  of  prejudices  ! 
Yet,  in  spite  of  all  these  obstacles,  we  have  met  at  Fenestrella,  to 
unite  in  the  same  religious  principles,  the  same  adoration  of  the  one 
Supreme  Being.  ” 

“ On  that  point,  give  me  leave  to  differ  with  you,”  said  Girardi, 
with  a smile.  “ To  lose  sight  of  is  not  to  deny.  Our  views  have 
never  been  the  same.” 

“ Certainly  not.  But  which  of  the  two,  the  bigot  or  the  sceptic, 
was  most  mistaken  ? which  the  most  deserving  of  pity  ?” 

“ Yourself  !”  replied  the  old  man,  without  hesitation  ; “ yes,  my 
dear  young  friend,  yourself.  All  extremes  are  dangerous  ; but  in 
superstition  there  is  faith,  passion,  vitality,  and  in  scepticism  univer- 
sal night,  universal  death.  Superstition  is  the  pure  stream  diverted 
from  its  natural  channel,  which  inundates,  submerges,  and  displaces 
the  vegetable  soil  ; but  conveys  it  elsewhere  and  repairs,  further  on 
its  course,  the  injuries  it  has  produced  ; while  scepticism  is  drought, 
dearth,  sterility,  burning,  and  scorching  up,  transmuting  earth  to 
sand,  and  rendering  the  mighty  Palmyra  a ruin  of  the  desert.  Not 
content  with  placing  an  eternal  bar  betwixt  us  and  the  Creator,  in- 
credulity relaxes  the  bonds  of  society  and  destroys  the  ties  of  kindred 
and  affection.  In  depriving  man  of  his  importance  as  a being  eter- 
nally responsible,  it  creates  around  him  isolation  and  contempt.  He 
is  alone  in  the  world,  alone  in  his  pride,  or,  as  I said  before,  alone  as 
a ruin  in  the  desert.  ’ ’ 

“ Alone  with  his  pride!”  murmured  Charney,  reclining  his  elbow 
on  the  arm  of  the  bench,  and  his  face  upon  his  hand.  “ Pride  ! of 
what?  of  knowledge?  of  science?  Oh,  why  should  man  labor  to 
destroy  the  elements  of  his  happiness  by  seeking  to  analyze  them,  or 
to  sound  their  depths  ? Even  if  indebted  for  his  joys  to  a deception, 
why  seek  to  raise  the  mask  and  accelerate  the  disenchantment  of  his 
future  life  ? Is  truth  so  dear  to  him  ? Does  knowledge  suffice  the 
desires  of  his  ambition  ? Madman  ! such  was  my  own  delusion.  ‘ I 
am  but  a worm,’  said  I to  myself,  ‘ a worm  destined  to  annihilation  ; ’ 
then,  raising  myself  in  the  dust  where  I was  crawling,  I felt  proud 
of  the  discovery,  vain  of  my  helpless  nakedness.  I believed  neither 
in  virtue  nor  happiness  ; but  at  the  thought  of  annihilation  I stopped 
proudly  short  and  accorded  my  unlimited  faith.  My  degradation 
appeared  a triumph  to  me,  for  it  was  assured  by  a discovery  of  my 
own.  Was  I not  justified  in  my  estimation  of  a theory  for  which  I 
had  given  in  exchange  no  less  than  my  regal  mantle,  the  countless 
treasures  of  my  immortality  ?” 

The  old  man  extended  his  hand  encouragingly  toward  his  com 
panion. 


112 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Be  judged  by  your  own  image  of  the  worm,”  said  Girardi. 
“ The  worm,  after  crawling  its  season  on  the  earth,  fed  with  bitter 
leaves,  condemned  to  the  slime  of  the  marsh  or  the  dust  of  the  road, 
constructs  his  own  chrysalis,  a temporary  coffin,  from  which  to 
emerge,  transformed,  purified— to  flutter  from  flower  to  flower,  and 
feed  upon  their  precious  perfumes.  On  two  radiant  wings  the  new 
creature  takes  its  flight  toward  the  skies,  even  as  man,  the  image  of 
his  Creator,  rises  to  the  bosom  of  his  God.” 

Cliarney  replied  by  a negative  movement  of  the  head. 

“Your  disease  was  more  deeply  rooted  that  my  own,”  observed 
Girardi,  with  a mournful  smile,  “ for  your  convalescence,  I see,  will 
be  more  tedious.  Have  you  already  forgotten  the  lessons  of  Picci- 
ola  ?” 

“ Not  one  of  them,”  replied  Oharney,  in  a tone  of  deep  emotion. 
I believe  in  God.  I believe  in  a first  cause  I believe  in  an  om- 
niscient Power,  the  eternal  Controller  of  the  universe.  But  your 
comparison  of  the  worm  supposes  the  immortality  of  the  soul  ; and 
by  what  is  it  demonstrated  to  my  reason  ?” 

“ By  the  instincts  of  the  human  soul,  which  irresistibly  impel  us 
to  look  forward  with  hope  and  joy.  Our  life  is  a life  of  expectation. 
From  infancy  to  old  age  hope  is  the  dominating  pole  of  our  destinies. 
In  what  savage  nation  of  the  earth  has  not  the  doctrine  of  a future 
state  been  found  existent  ? And  why  should  not  the  hope  thus  con- 
ceded be  accomplished  ? Is  the  power  of  God  more  finite  than  the 
mind  of  his  creatures  ? I do  not  invoke  the  authority  of  revelation 
and  the  Holy  Scriptures.  All-convincing  to  myself,  for  you  they 
possess  no  authority.  The  breeze  which  impels  the  ship  is  powerless 
to  move  the  rock  ; for  the  rock  has  no  expanding  sails  to  receive  its 
impulse,  and  its  feet  are  buried  in  the  ponderous  immobility  of  earth. 
Shall  we  believe  in  the  eternity  of  matter,  and  not  in  that  of  the  in- 
telligence which  serves  to  regulate  our  opinions-concerning  matter  ? 
Or  are  we  to  suppose  that  love,  virtue,  genius,  result  from  the  affinity 
of  certain  terrestrial  molecules  ? Can  that  which  is  devoid  of 
thought  enable  us  to  think  ? Can  brute  matter  be  the  basis  of  hu- 
man intelligence,  when  human  intelligence  is  able  to  direct  and  gov- 
ern matter  ? Why,  then,  do  not  stocks  and  stones  think  and  feel  as 
we  do  ?” 

“ Locke,  the  great  English  metaphysician,  was  inclined  to  suppose 
that  matter  might  be  endowed  with  ideas,”  observed  Charney. 
“ There  was  contradiction,  indeed,  in  his  theory,  since  he  rejected 
the  doctrine  of  innate  ideas,  and  seemed  to  admit  the  possibility  of 
intuitive  knowledge.”  Then,  interrupting  himself  with  a laugh,  the 
count  exclaimed,  “Have  a care,  my  kind  instructor!  I see  you 
Would  fain  involve  me  once  more  in  the  quicksands  of  doubt,  or 
plunge  me  into  the  bottomless  bit  of  metaphysics  !” 

“ I have  no  knowledge  of  metaphysics,”  said  Girardi,  gravely. 

“ And  1 but  little,”  observed  Charney  ; “ not,  however,  for  want 


PICCIOLA. 


113 


of  devoting  my  time  to  the  study.  But  let  us  drop  a subject  un- 
profitable, and,  perhaps,  injurious.  You  believe  ; rejoice  in  youf 
belief  ! Your  faith  is  dear  to  you  ; and  if,  perchance,  I should  shake 
its  foundations— ” 

“ I defy  you  to  the  contest  !”  cried  Girardi. 

“ What  have  you  to  gain  by  the  result  ?” 

“ Your  conversion  ; nothing  less,  my  dear  young  friend,  than  your 
conversion.  Just  now  you  quoted  Locke.  Of  that  eminent  philoso- 
pher I know  but  a single  trait — that  through  life,  and  even  on  his 
death-bed,  he  asserted  the  true  happiness  of  mankind  to  consist  in 
purity  of  conscience  and  hope  in  eternal  life.  ’ ’ 

“ I perfectly  comprehend  the  consolation  to  be  derived  from  such  a 
creed  ; but  my  better  reason  forbids  me  to  accept  it.  I entreat  you, 
let  us  drop  the  subject,  ” said  the  Count  de  Charney. 

And  a constrained  silence  ensued. 

Soon  afterward  something  which  had  been  circling  overhead  sud- 
denly alighted  on  the  foliage  of  the  plant — a greenish  insect,  of  which 
the  narrow  corselet  was  undulated  with  whitish  stripes. 

“ Sir  !”  cried  Charney,  “ behold  in  good  time  a new  text  enabling 
you  to  enlarge  upon  the  mysteries  of  creation.” 

Girardi  took  the  insect  with  due  precaution,  examined  it  carefully, 
paused  for  reflection,  and  suddenly  an  expression  of  triumph  devel- 
oped itself  in  his  countenance.  An  irresistible  argument  seemed  to 
have  fallen  from  heaven  into  his  hands.  Commencing  in  his  usual 
professional  tone,  he  gradually  assumed  a more  sublime  expression, 
as  the  secret  object  of  his  lesson  penetrated  through  his  language. 

“Mere  fly-catcher  as  I am,”  he  began,  with  an  arch  smile,  “1 
must  restrict  mj^self  to  my  humble  attributions,  and  not  presume  to 
affect  the  pedantry  of  the  scholar.  ’ ’ 

“The  most  enlightened  mind,”  said  Charney,  “the  mind  which 
has  profited  most  largely  by  the  acquirement  of  knowledge,  is  that 
which  soonest  discovers  the  limitation  of  its  own  powers,  after  vainly 
attempting  to  penetrate  into  the  hidden  mysteries  of  things.  Geniu? 
itself  breaks  its  wings  against  such  obstacles,  without  having  ex- 
tracted from  the  wall  of  flints,  by  which  it  is  obstructed,  one  spark 
of  the  light  of  truth.” 

“We  ignoramuses,”  observed  Girardi,  “arrive  sooner  at  our  ob- 
ject by  taking  the  most  direct  road.  If  we  do  but  open  our  eyes,  God. 
deigns  to  reveal  himself  in  the  august  sublimity  of  his  works.” 

“ On  that  point  we  are  agreed,”  interrupted  Charney. 

“ Proceed  we  then  in  our  course.  An  herb  of  the  field  sufficed  to 
prove  to  you  the  existence  of  a Providence  ; a butterfly,  the  law  of 
universal  harmony  ; the  insect  before  us,  of  which  the* organization 
is  of  a still  higher  order,  may  lead  us  still  further  toward  convic- 
tion.” 

Charney,  at  the  instance  of  his  friend,  proceeded  to  examine  the  lit- 
tle stranger  with  curious  attention. 


114 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Behold  this  insignificant  creature,”  resumed  Girardi.  “ All  that 
human  genius  could  effect  would  not  add  one  tittle  to  an  organization 
perfectly  adapted  to  its  wants  and  necessities.  It  has  wings  to  trans- 
port it  from  one  place  to  another,  elytra  to  incase  and  secure  them 
from,  the  contact  of  any  hard  substance.  Its  breast  is  defended  by  a 
cuirass,  its  eyes  by  a curious  network  that  defies  the  prick  of  a thorn 
or  the  sting  of  an  enemy.  It  possesses  antennae  to  interrogate  the 
obstacles  that  present  themselves,  feet  to  attain  its  prey,  iron  mandi- 
bles to  assist  in  devouring  it,  in  digging  the  earth  for  a refuge,  or  a 
depository  for  its  food  or  eggs.  If  a dangerous  adversary  should  ap- 
proach, it  has  in  reserve  an  acrid  and  corrosive  fluid,  by  discharging 
which  it  defies  its  enemies.  Instinct  teaches  it  to  find  its  food,  to 
provide  its  lodging,  and  exercise  its  powers  of  offence  and  defence. 
Nor  is  this  a solitary  instance.  Other  insects  are  endowed  with  simi- 
lar delicacy  of  organization  ; the  imagination  recoils  with  wonder 
from  the  multiplicity  and  variety  of  provisions  invented  by  nature  for 
the  security  of  the  apparently  feeble  insect  tribes.  We  have  still  to 
consider  this  fragile  creature  as  demonstrating  the  line  of  demarca- 
tion between  mankind  and  the  brute  creation. 

“Man  is  sent  naked  into  the  world,  feeble,  helpless,  unendowed 
with  the  wings  of  the  bird,  the  swiftness  of  the  stag,  the  tortuous 
speed  of  the  serpent ; without  means  of  defence  against  the  claws  or 
darts  or  an  enemy,  nay,  against  even  the  inclemency  of  the  weather. 
He  has  no  shell,  no  fleece,  no  covering  of  fur,  nor  even  a den  or  bur- 
row for  his  hiding-place.  Yet,  by  force  of  his  natural  powers,  he 
has  driven  the  lion  from  his  cave,  despoiled  the  bear  of  his  shaggy 
coat  for  a vestment,  and  the  bull  of  his  horn  to  form  a drinking-cup. 
He  has  dug  into  the  entrails  of  the  earth  to  bring  forth  elements  of 
future  strength  ; the  very  eagle,  in  traversing  the  skies,  finds  himself 
struck  down  in  the  midst  of  its  career  to  adorn  his  cap  with  a trophy 
of  distinction. 

“ Which  of  all  the  animal  creation  could  have  supported  itself  in 
the  midst  of  such  difficulties  and  such  privations  ? Let  us  for  a mo- 
ment suppose  the  disunion  of  power  and  action— of  God  and  Nature. 
Nature  has  done  wonders  for  the  insect  before  us  ; for  man,  appar- 
ently nothing.  Because  man,  an  emanation  from  God  himself,  and 
'formed  after  his  image,  was  created  feeble  and  helpless  as  regards  the 
organization  of  matter,  in  order  to  demonstrate  the  divine  influence 
of  that  ethereal  spark  which  endows  him  with  all  the  elements  of 
future  greatness.” 

“Explain  to  me,  at  least,”  interrupted  Charney,  “the  peculiar 
value  of  this  precious  gift,  bestowed,  you  say,  exclusively  upon  the 
human  species  ; superior  in  many  points  to  the  animal  creation, 
surely  we  are  inferior  in  the  majority.  This  very  insect,  whose  won- 
drous powers  you  have  expounded,  inspires  me  with  a sense  of  inferi- 
ority and  profound  humiliation.” 

“From  time  immemorial,”  replied  Girardi,  “animals  have  dis- 


PICCIOLA. 


115 


played  no  progress  in  their  powers  of  operation.  What  they  are  to- 
day, such  have  they  ever  been  ; what  to-day  they  know,  they  have 
known  from  the  beginning  of  the  world.  If  born  so  lavishly  en- 
dowed, it  is  because  they  are  incapable  of  improvement.  They  live 
not  by  their  own  will,  but  by  the  impulse  imparted  to  them  by  na- 
ture. From  the  creation  until  now,  the  beaver  has  constructed  his 
lodge  upon  the  same  plan,  the  caterpillar  and  spider  woven  their 
cocoons  and  tissues  of  the  same  form,  the  bee  projected  his  cell  of 
the  same  hexagon,  the  lion-ant  traced,  without  a compass,  its  circles 
and  arches.  The  character  of  their  labors  is  that  of  exactitude  and 
uniformity  ; that  of  man,  diversity,  for  human  labor  arises  from  a 
free  and  creative  faculty  of  mind.  Judge,  therefore,  between  them  ! 
Of  all  created  beings,  man  alone  possesses  the  idea  of  duty,  of  re- 
sponsibility, of  contemplation,  of  piety.  Alone  of  all  the  earth,  he  is 
endowed  with  insight  into  futurity  and  the  knowledge  of  life  and 
death.” 

“But  is  this  knowledge  an  advantage  ; is  it  a source  of  happi- 
ness ?’  ’ demanded  the  count.  ‘ ‘ Why  lias  God  bestowed  upon  us 
reason  by  which  we  are  led  astray,  and  learning  which  serves  but  to 
perplex  us  ? With  all  our  superiority,  how  often  are  we  forced  to 
despise  ourselves  ! Why  is  the  exclusively  privileged  being  the  only 
one  liable  to  error  ? Is  not  the  instinct  of  animals  preferable  to  our 
glimmering  reason  ?” 

“ Both  species  were  not  created  for  the  same  end.  God  requires  not 
virtue  of  the  brute  creation.  Were  they  endowed  with  reason,  with 
liberty  of  choice  as  regards  their  food  and  lodgment,  the  equilibrium 
of  the  world  would  be  destroyed.  The  will  of  the  Creator  decided 
that  the  surface  of  the  globe,  and  even  its  depths,  should  be  filled 
with  animated  beings — that  life  should  pervade  the  universe  ; in 
pursuance  of  which,  plains,  valleys,  forests,  from  the  mountain-top 
to  the  lowest  chasm — trees,  rocks,  rivers,  lakes,  oceans,  from  the 
sandy  desert  to  the  marshy  swamp — in  all  climates  and  latitudes — 
from  one  pole  to  the  other — all  is  peopled,  all  instinct  with  life,  all 
blended  in  one  vast  sphere  of  existence.  Whether  sheltered  in 
the  depths  of  the  wilderness  or  behind  a blade  of  grass,  the  lion  and 
the  pismire  are  alike  at  the  post  assigned  them  by  nature.  Each  has 
his  part  to  play,  his  place  to  guard,  his  predestined  line  of  action  ; 
each  is  enchained  within  his  proper  bound  ; for  every  square  of  the 
infinite  chess-board  was  from  the  first  appropriately  filled.  Man 
alone  is  free  to  range  over  all— to  traverse  oceans  and  deserts  ; pitch 
his  tent  on  the  sand,  or  construct  a floating  palace  on  the  waters  ; to 
defy  the  alpine  snows  or  the  fervors  of  the  torrid  zone  : 

“ The  world  is  all  before  him  where  to  choose 
His  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  his  guide.” 

“ But  if  Providence  indeed  exert  such  influence,  from  whence 
the  crimes  arising  in  all  human  communities,  and  the  disasters  which 
overwhelm  mankind  ?”  cried  Charney.  “ I sympathize  in  your  ad- 


116 


PICCIOLA. 


miration  of  all  created  tilings  ; my  reason  is  overwhelmed  when  T 
examine  the  mighty  whole,  but  on  descending  to  the  history  of  the 
human  species — ” 

“ My  friend,”  interrupted  Girardi,  “ arraign  not  the  wisdom  of  the 
Almighty  because  of  the  errors  of  mankind,  the  devastations  of  a 
hurricane,  or  the  eruptions  of  a volcano  ! Immutable  laws  are  im- 
printed upon  matter,  and  the  work  of  ages  is  accomplished,  whether 
a vessel  founder  in  a storm  or  a city  disappear  beneath  the  surface 
of  the  earth.  Of  what  account  in  the  sight  of  the  Almighty  a few 
human  existences  more  or  less  ? Does  the  Supreme  Being  believe  in 
the  reality  of  death,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ? 

“ No  ! But  He  has  conferred  on  our  souls  the  power  of  self-gov- 
ernment, and  this  is  proved  by  the  independence  of  our  passions.  I 
have  portrayed  animals  submitted  to  the  irresistible  influence  of  in- 
stinct— possessing  only  blind  tendencies,  and  the  qualities  inherent 
in  their  several  species.  Man  alone  is  the  parent  of  his  virtues  and 
his  vices  ; man  alone  is  endowed  with  free  agency  ; because  for  him 
this  earth  is  a place  of  probation.  The  tree  of  good  and  evil  which 
we  cultivate  here  is  to  bear  its  fruits  in  a higher  or  a lower  region. 
Do  you  imagine  the  Omniscient  God  so  unjust  as  to  leave  the  afflic- 
tions of  the  virtuous  unrewarded  ? Were  this  world  the  limit  of  our 
reward  and  punishment,  the  man  who  dies  by  a stroke  of  lightning 
ought  to  be  accounted  a malefactor,  and  the  fortune  of  the  prosper- 
ous should  suffice  as  a certification  of  excellence  !” 

Charney  listened  in  silence,  impressed  by  the  simple  eloquence  of 
|iis  instructor  ; his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  noble  countenance,  on 
which  the  excitement  of  a mind  innately  pious  was  imprinting  an 
almost  august  character  of  inspiration. 

“ But  why,”  at  length  murmured  the  count,  “ why  has  not  God 
vouchsafed  us  the  positive  certainty  of  our  immortality  ?” 

“ Doubt  was  perhaps  indispensable,”  replied  the  venerable  man, 
rising  and  placing  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  shoulder  of  his 
youthful  companion,  “ to  repress  the  vanity  of  human  reason.  What 
is  the  merit  of  virtue  if  its  rewards  be  assured  beforehand  ? What 
would  become  of  free  will  ? The  soul  of  man  is  expansive,  but  not 
infinite — vast  in  its  power  of  apprehending  its  own  distinctions  and 
of  appreciating  the  Creator  by  the  mightiness  of  his  works,  yet  so 
limited  as  to  render  it  profoundly  sensible  of  its  dependence  upon 
Providence.  Man  is  permitted  a glimpse  of  his  destinies— Faith 
must  effect  the  rest. 

“ Oh,  mighty  and  all-seeing  God  !”  cried  Girardi,  suddenly  inter- 
rupting himself  and  claspiug  his  hands  in  all  the  fervor  of  supplica- 
tion, ” lend  me  the  strength  of  thine  arm  to  upraise  from  the  dust 
this  man  who  is  struggling  with  his  human  weakness  and  the  desire 
to  reach  thy  fountains  of  light  ! Lend  me  thy  wisdom  to  direct  the 
aspirations  of  this  longing  and  bewildered  soul  ! Lend  eloquence  to 
the  words  of  my  lips,  that  they  may  be  endued  with  the  strength  and 


PICCIOLA. 


117 


power  of  the  faith  that  is  in  me  ! The  humblest  of  thy  creations — a 
flower  and  an  insect — have  startled  the  sceptic  in  his  self-security  ; 
give  grace  to  these,  O Lord  ! if  not  to  me,  to  perfect  the  work  thine 
infinite  mercy  has  begun  ; and  if  not  by  me,  by  the  humble  plant 
before  us,  be  the  miracle  of  thy  holiness  accomplished  !” 

The  old  man  was  silent.  An  ecstasy  of  prayer  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  soul ; and  when,  at  the  close  of  his  unuttered  devotions, 
he  turned  toward  his  companion,  Charney  was  bending  his  head 
upon  his  hands,  clasped  together  upon  the  back  of  the  bench  where 
they  were  sitting.  On  raising  his  head,  his  countenance  bore  traces 
of  the  most  devout  meditation. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

In  the  purified  heart  of  Charney  the  blood  now  flowed  more 
calmly  ; in  his  expanded  mind,  mild  and  consolatory  ideas  succeeded 
each  other  in  gentle  gradation.  Like  tbe  wise  Piedmontese,  his 
friend,  he  was  fully  alive  to  the  conviction  that  happiness  connects 
itself  indissolubly  with  love  of  our  fellow-creatures  ; and  in  striving 
to  people  his  imagination  with  those  to  whom  he  was  bound  by  ties 
of  gratitude,  the  empress,  Girardi,  and  Ludovico  presented  themselves 
first  to  his  mind.  But  at  length  two  female  shadows  became  percep- 
tible at  either  extremity  of  this  rainbow  of  love,  expanding  after  the 
storm,  just  as  we  see  in  altar-pieces  two  seraphim,  with  brows  in- 
clined and  half-closed  wings,  supporting  the  arch  of  the  picture. 

One  of  these  shadows  was  the  fairy  of  his  dreams— the  maiden 
Picciola,  emanating,  fresh,  fair,  and  blooming  from  the  perfumes  of 
his  flower  ; the  other,  the  guardian  angel  of  his  prison,  his  second 
providence — Teresa  Girardi. 

By  a singular  inconsistency,  the  former,  whose  existence  was 
purely  ideal,  haunted  his  memory  in  a fixed,  distinct,  and  positive 
form  ; he  could  discern  the  varying  expression  of  her  brow,  the  glitter- 
ing of  her  eye,  the  smile  of  her  lips — such  as  she  had  once  appeared 
to  him  in  his  dreams,  such  was  she  ever  manifested.  Whereas 
Teresa,  on  whom  he  had  never  fixed  his  eyes,  or  only  while  still 
under  the  influence  of  a waking  dream,  under  what  traits  could  he 
summon  her  to  his  remembrance  ? In  her  instance,  the  countenance 
of  the  seraph  was  veiled  ; and  when  Charney,  in  despair,  attempted 
to  raise  the  veil,  it  was  still  the  face  of  Picciola  that  smiled  upon 
him  ; of  Picciola,  multiplying  herself  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  inter- 
rupting the  homage  he  would  fain  have  offered  to  her  rival. 

. One  morning  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella,  though  wide  awake,  fan- 
cied himself  alarmingly  dominated  by  this  strange  hallucination. 
The  day  was  dawning.  Having  risen  from  his  cheerless  bed,  he 


118 


PICCIOLA. 


was  musing  upon  Girardi,  who,  prepared  for  his  speedy  release  from 
prison,  had  infused  such  tenderness  into  his  adieus  of  the  preceding 
night  that  the  count  had  been  kept  all  night  sleepless  by  the  impres- 
sion of  their  approaching  separation.  After  pacing  his  room  for 
some  time  in  silence,  he  looked  out  from  his  grated  window  upon  the 
Bench  of  Conference,  where,  only  the  evening  before,  he  had  been 
engaged  with  Girardi  in  conversation  relative  to  his  daughter  ; and 
lo  ! through  the  gray-liued  mists  of  autumn  he  fancied  he  could 
discern  a woman — the  figure  of  a young  and  graceful  woman — seated 
on  the  spot.  She  was  alone,  and  in  an  inclining  attitude,  as  if  en- 
gaged in  contemplation  of  the  flower  before  her. 

Recalling  to  mind  the  probability  of  Teresa’s  arrival,  Charney 
naturally  exclaimed,  “ It  is  herself  ! Teresa  is  arrived  ! I am  about 
to  see  her  for  a moment,  and  then  behold  her  face  no  more,  and  in 
losing  her  I shail  also  be  deprived  of  my  venerated  companion.” 

As  he  spoke,  the  figure  turned  toward  his  window,  and  the  coun- 
tenance revealed  to  him  by  the  movement  was  no  other  than  the  face 
of  his  dream-love — of  Picciola — still  and  always  Picciola  ! 

Stupefied  by  the  discovery,  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  his 
.eyes,  his  garments,  the  cold  iron  bars  of  his  window,  in  order  to  be 
satisfied  that  he  was  awake,  and  that  this  time,  at  least,  it  was  not  a 
dream. 

The  young  woman  rose,  moved  a few  paces  toward  him,  and, 
smiling  and  blushing,  addressed  him  a confused  gesture  of  saluta- 
tion ; but  Charney  made  no  acknowledgment,  either  of  the  smile  or 
the  gesture  by  which  it  was  accompanied.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  graceful  form  which  traversed  the  misty  court,  a form  in 
every  point  resembling  that  with  which  his  ideal  Picciola  was  in- 
vested in  the  dreams  of  his  solitude.  Fancying  himself  under  the 
influence  of  delirium,  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  in  hopes  of  re- 
covering his  composure  and  presence  of  mind.  Some  minutes  after 
ward  the  door  opened,  and  Ludovico  made  his  appearance. 

“ Oim<f  ! oimt!  Sad  news  and  great  news,  eccellenza  /”  cried  he. 
“ One  of  my  birds  is  about  to  take  flight— not  over  the  walls  indeed, 
but  over  the  drawbridge.  So  much  the  better  for  him,  and  the  worse 
for  you.” 

” Is  it  to  be  to-day,  then  ?”  demanded  Charney  in  a tone  of  emo- 
tion. 

“ I hardly  know,  Signor  Conte  ; but  it  can’t  be  far  off  ; for  the  act 
of  release  has  been  already  signed  in  Paris,  and  is  known  to  be  on 
its  way  to  Turin  ; at  least,  so  the  young  lady  just  now  told  her 
father  in  my  hearing.” 

” How  !”  cried  Charney,  starting  from  his  reclining  attitude. 
“ She  is  arrived  then — she  is  here  /” 

“ At  Fenestrella,  eccellenza , since  yesterday  evening,  and  provided 
with  a formal  order  for  her  admission  into  the  fortress.  But  there 
is  a special  injunction  against  letting  down  the  drawbridge  after 


PICCIOLA. 


119 


hours  for  a female  ; so  she  was  obliged  to  put  off  her  visit  till  this 
morning,  Capo  di  Bio  ! I knew  she  was  there,  but  kept  the  secret  as 
close  as  wax.  Not  a syllable  did  I let  fall  before  the  poor  old  gentle- 
man, or  he  would  not  have  had  a wink  of  sleep.  The  night  would 
have  seemed  as  long  as  ten  had  he  known  that  his  child  was  so  near. 
This  morning  she  was  up  before  the  sun,  and  waited  for  admit- 
tance at  the  gates  of  the  citadel,  in  the  morning  fogs,  like  a good  soul 
and  good  daughter  as  she  is.” 

“ And  did  she  not  wait  some  time  in  the  courtyard,  seated  yonder 
on  the  bench?”  cried  Charney,  confounded  by  all  he  was  hearing. 
And,  rushing  to  the  window,  he  cast  an  inquiring  glance  anew  upon 
the  little  court,  adding,  in  an  altered  voice,  “ But  she  is  gone,  I see  ! 
she  is  there  no  longer  !” 

“ Of  course  not,  now  ; but  she  was  there  half  an  hour  ago,”  re- 
plied the  jailer.  “ She  stayed  in  the  court  while  I went  up-stairs  to 
prepare  her  father  for  the  visit  ; for  the  poor  young  lady  had  heard 
that  people  may  die  of  joy.  Joy,  you  see,  eccellenza,  is  like  spirituous 
liquors  ; a thimbleful  now  and  then  does  a man  a power  of  good  ; 
but  let  him  toss  off  a whole  gourd,  and  there’s  an  end  of  him  at  once. 
Now,  bless  their  poor  hearts,  they  are  together  ; and  seeing  them 
so  happy,  per  Bacco,  I found  myself  suddenly  all  of  a nohow  ; which 
made  me  think  of  your  excellency,  and  how  you  were  about  to  be 
deprived  of  your  friend  ; and  so  I made  off  to  remind  you  that  Ludo 
vico  will  still  be  left  you — to  say  nothing  of  Picciola.  To  be  sure, 
poor  thing,  she  is  losing  her  beauty — scarce  a leaf  left.  But  that  is 
the  natural  effect  of  the  season.  You  must  not  despise  her  for  that.” 

And  the  jailer  quitted  the  room  without  waiting  the  reply  of 
Charney,  who,  deeply  affected,  vainly  tried  to  explain  to  himself  the 
mysteries  of  his  vision.  He  was  now  almost  persuaded  that  the 
sweet  figure  by  which  his  dreams  were  haunted,  to  which  he  had 
assigned  the  name  of  Picciola,  was  the  creature  of  reminiscence  ; 
that,  absorbed  by  interest  in  his  plant,  he  had  cast  his  eyes  on  Teresa 
Girardi,  as  she  stood  at  the  grated  window,  and  unwittingly  received 
an  impression  eventually  reproduced  by  his  dreams. 

While  he  was  thus  reasoning,  the  murmur  of  two  voices  reached 
him  from  the  stairs  ; and,  in  addition  to  the  well-known  steps  of  the 
old  man  gliding  over  the  stones,  he  could  distinguish  the  light,  airy 
foot  of  one  who  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  steps  as  she  descended 
At  length  the  measured  sound  ceased  at  his  door.  He  started.  But 
Girardi  made  his  appearance  alone. 

“ My  daughter  is  here,”  said  the  old  man.  “ She  is  waiting  for 
us  beside  your  plant.” 

Charney  followed  in  silence.  He  had  not  courage  to  articulate  a 
syllable  ; a consciousness  of  pain  and  constraint  chased  every  feeling 
of  pleasure  from  his  heart. 

Was  this  the  consequence  of  being  about  to  present  himself  before  a 
woman  to  whom  he  was  so  largely  indebted,  and  toward  whom  it  was 


120 


PICCIOLA. 


impossible  for  him  to  discharge  the  obligation  ; or  of  shame  for  his 
ungraciousness  of  the  morning,  in  neglecting  to  return  her  smile  and 
salutation  ? As  the  time  of  separation  from  Girardi  approached,  were 
his  fortitude  and  resignation  forsaking  him?  No  matter  what  the 
motive  of  his  embarrassment  in  presenting  himself  before  Teresa 
Girardi,  no  one  could  have  discerned,  in  his  language  or  demeanor, 
traces  of  the  brilliant  and  popular  Count  de  ('barney — the  ease  of 
the  man  of  the  world,  the  self-possession  of  the  philosopher  had 
given  place  to  an  awkwardness,  a hesitation,  which  called  forth,  in 
the  answers  of  Teresa,  a correspondent  tone  of  coldness  and  circum- 
spection. 

In  spite  of  all  Girardi 's  exertions  to  place  his  daughter  and  his 
friend  on  an  agreeable  footing,  their  conversation  turned  only  upon 
indifferent  subjects,  or  trite  remarks  upon  the  dawning  hopes  of  all 
parties.  Having  in  some  degree  recovered  his  emotion,  Charney 
read,  in  the  features  of  the  lovely  Piedmontese,  only  the  most  com- 
plete indifference,  and  persuaded  himself  that  the  services  she  had 
rendered  him  had  been  instigated  by  the  impulses  of  a generous  dis- 
position, or  perhaps  by  the  commands  of  her  father. 

Charney  began  almost  to  regret  that  the  interview  had  taken  place  ; 
for  he  felt  that  he  could  never  more  invest  her,  in  his  reveiks,  with 
her  former  fascinations,  While  all  three  were  seated  on  the  bench, 
Girardi  rapt  in  contemplation  of  his  daughter,  and  Charney  giving 
utterance  to  a few  cold,  incoherent  remarks,  there  escaped,  from  the 
folds  of  Teresa’s  dress,  as  she  wras  drawn  suddenly  forward  by  the 
tender  embrace  of  her  father,  a medallion  of  gold  and  crystal.  On 
stooping  to  pick  it  up,  Charney  could  readily  discern  that  one  side 
was  occupied  by  a lock  of  her  father’s  gray  hair  and  the  other  by  a 
withered  flower.  He  looked  again  ; he  gazed  anxiously  ; he  could 
not  mistake  it.  The  hidden  treasure  was  the  identical  flower  of  Pic- 
ciola,  which  he  had  sent  her  by  Ludovico. 

Teresa  had  kept  this  flower,  then,  had  preserved  it,  treasured  it 
with  the  gray  hairs  of  her  father — the  father  whom  she  adored  ! The 
flower  of  Picciola  no  longer  adorned  the  raven  tresses  of  the  young 
girl,  but  rested  upon  her  heart  ! This  discovery  produced  an  instan- 
taneous revolution  in  the  sentiments  of  Charney.  He  began  to  re- 
consider the  charms  of  Teresa,  as  if  a new  personage  had  offered  her- 
self to  his  observation  ; as  if  he  had  seen  her  metamorphosed  by  en- 
chantment before  his  eyes. 

The  count  now  perceived  that,  as  she  turned  her  expressive  looks 
toward  her  father,  the  twofold  character  of  tenderness  and  placidity 
impressed  upon  her  beauty  was  analogous  with  that  of  Raphael’s 
Madonnas  ; that  she  was  lovely  with  the  loveliness  of  a pure  and 
perfect  soul.  Charney  retraced,  with  deliberate  admiration,  her  ani- 
mated profile — her  countenance  expressive  of  the  union  of  strength 
and  softness,  energy  and  timidity.  It  was  long  since  he  had  looked 
upoD  a new  human  face — how  much  longer  since  he  had  contem- 


PICCIOLA. 


121 


plated,  in  combination,  youth,  beauty,  and  virtue  ! The  spectacle 
seemed  to  intoxicate  his  senses  ; and  after  a glance  at  the  graceful 
form  and  perfect  symmetry  of  Teresa  Girardi,  his  wandering  eyes 
fixed  themselves  once  more  on  the  medallion. 

“ You  did  not  disdain  my  humble  offering,  then  !”  faltered  the 
count ; and  faint  as  was  the  whisper  in  which  the  words  were  con- 
veyed, they  roused  the  pride  of  Teresa,  who,  advancing  her  hand  to 
receive  the  trinket,  replaced  it  hurriedly  in  her  dress.  But  at  that 
moment  she  was  struck  by  the  change  of  expression  visible  in  the 
features  of  the  count,  and  both  their  faces  became  suffused  with 
blushes. 

“ What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  child  ?”  demanded  Girardi,  notic- 
ing her  confusion. 

“ Nothing  !”  she  replied  with  emotion.  Then,  as  if  ashamed  of 
playing  the  hypocrite  with  her  parent,  suddenly  added,  “ This  medal- 
lion, father,  ^contains  a lock  of  your  hair.”  Then,  as  she  turned 
toward  Charney,  “ And  this  flower,  sir,  is  the  one  you  sent  me  by 
Ludovico.  I have  preserved  it,  and  shall  keep  it  forever.” 

In  her  words,  in  the  sound  of  her  voice,  in  the  intuitive  modesty 
which  induced  her  to  unite  her  father  and  the  stranger  in  her  explan- 
ations, there  was  at  once  so  much  ingenuousness  and  purity  of  femi- 
nine instinct  that  Charney  began  for  the  first  time  to  appreciate  the 
true  merits  of  Teresa  Girardi. 

The  remainder  of  that  happy  day  elapsed  amid  effusions  of  mutual 
friendship,  which  every  moment  seemed  to  enhance.  Independent  of 
the  secret  power  which  attracts  us  toward  another,  the  progress  of 
friendship  is  always  rapid  in  proportion  to  the  time  we  know  to  be 
allowed  us  for  the  cultivation  of  a dawning  partiality.  This  was  the 
first  day  that  Charney  and  Teresa  had  conversed  together  ; but  they 
had  had  occasion  to  think  so  much  of  each  other,  and  so  few  hours 
were  assigned  them  to  be  together,  that  a mutual  acquaintance  was 
speedily  accomplished  ; so  that,  when  Charney,  impelled  by  good 
breeding  and  good  feeling,  would  fain  have  retired,  in  order  to  afford 
an  opportunity  to  the  father  and  daughter,  so  long  separated,  to 
converse  together  alone,  Girardi  and  Teresa  alike  opposed  the  move- 
ment of  retreat. 

“ Are  you  about  to  leave  us?”  said  the  latter.  “ Do  you,  then, 
consider  yourself  a stranger  to  my  father,  or  to  meV 3 added  the  young 
girl  in  a tone  of  gentle  reproach.  And  in  order  to  make  him  fully 
apprehend  how  little  restraint  was  imposed  upon  her  by  his  presence, 
Teresa  began  to  detail  to  her  father  all  that  had  befallen  her  from  the 
moment  of  her  departure  from  Fenestrella,  and  the  means  she  had 
employed  to  bring  together  the  two  captives  ; addressing,  at  the  con- 
clusion of  her  narrative,  a request  to  Charney  to  relate  all  the  little 
events  of  the  citadel,  and  the  progress  of  his  studies  connected  with 
Picciola.  After  this  appeal,  the  count  did  not  hesitate  to  confess  the 
history  of  his  early  miseries — the  tedium  of  his  captivity,  and  the 


122 


riCCIOLA. 


blessing  vouchsafed  him  in  the  arrival  of  his  plant ; while  Teresa, 
gay  and  naive,  stimulated  his  confessions  by  the  liveliness  of  her  in- 
quiries_and  repartees. 

Seated  between  the  two,  and  holding  a hand  of  each — of  the  daugh- 
ter thus  restored  to  him,  and  the  friend  he  was  about  to  leave — the 
venerable  Girardi  listened  to  their  discourse  with  an  air  of  mingled 
joy  and  sadness.  At  one  moment  when,  by  a spontaneous  move- 
ment, he  was  about  to  clasp  his  hands,  those  of  Charney  and  Teresa 
were  brought  almost  into  contact,  the  two  young  people  appeared 
startled,  touched,  embarrassed,  and,  though  silent,  communicated 
their  emotion  to  each  other  by  a rapid  glance.  But  without  affectation 
or  prudery,  Teresa  soon  disengaged  her  hand  from  that  of  her  father  ; 
and  placing  it  affectionately  on  his  shoulder,  looked  smilingly  toward 
the  count,  as  if  inviting  him  to  resume  his  narrative. 

Enqhanted  and  emboldened  by  so  much  grace  and  candor,  Charney 
described  the  reveries  produced  by  the  emanations  of  his  plant.  How 
could  he  forbear  allusion  to  that  which  constituted  the  great  event  of 
his  captivity  ? He  spoke  of  the  fair  being  whom  he  had  been  induced 
to  worship  as  the  personification  of  Picciola  ; and,  while  tracing  her 
portrait  with  warmth,  or  rather  transport,  the  smiles  of  Teresa  gradu- 
ally disappeared,  and  her  bosom  swelled  with  agitation. 

The  narrator  was  careful  to  assign  no  name  to  the  soft  image  he 
tried  to  call  up  before  their  eyes  ; but  when,  in  completing  the  history 
of  the  disasters  of  his  plant,  he  reached  the  moment  when,  by  order 
of  the  commandant,  the  dying  Picciola  was  on  the  eve  of  being  torn 
up  before  his  eyes,  Teresa  could  not  refrain  from  a cry  of  sympathy. 

“ My  poor  Picciola  !”  cried  she. 

“ Thine!"  reiterated  her  father,  with  a smile. 

“Yes,  mine!  Did  I not  contribute  to  her  preservation ?”  per- 
sisted Teresa. 

And  Charney,  in  confirming  her  title  to  the  adoption,  felt  as  if, 
from  that  moment,  a sacred  bond  of  community  were  established  be- 
tween them  forever  more. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Gladly  would  the  Count  de  Charney  have  renounced  his  liberty 
for  the  remainder  of  his  days  could  he  have  secured  the  sentence  of 
passing  them  at  Fenestrella,  between  Teresa  Girardi  and  her  father. 
He  no  longer  deceived  himself.  He  felt  that  he  loved  Teresa  as  he 
had  never  loved  before.  A sentiment  to  which  his  breast  had  hith- 
erto been  a stranger  now  penetrated  into  its  depths,  impetuous  and 
gentle,  sweet  and  stimulating,  like  some  acid  fruit  of  the  tropics,  at 
once  sweet  and  refreshing.  His  new  passion  revealed  itself  not  only 
by  transports  hitherto  unknown,  but  by  the  serene  glow  of  a holy 


PICCIOLA. 


123 


tenderness,  embracing  universal  nature  ; nay,  the  great  Lord  and 
Creator  of  nature  and  nature’s  works.  His  brain,  his  heart,  his 
whole  existence,  seemed  to  dilate,  as  if  to  embrace  the  new  hopes, 
projects,  and  emotions  crowding  on  his  regenerated  existence. 

Next  day  the  three  friends  met  again  beside  Picciola,  Girardi  and 
the  count  occupying  their  bench,  and  Teresa  a chair  of  state,  placed 
opposite  them  by  the  gallantry  of  Ludovico.  She  had  brought  with 
her  some  task  of  woman’s  work,  some  strip  of  delicate  embroidery, 
over  which  her  soft  countenance  inclined,  her  graceful  head  following 
the  movements  of  her  needle,  and  every  now  and  then  raising  her 
eyes  and  suspending  her  work  to  interpose  some  playful  remark  in 
their  grave  dissertations.  At  length,  suddenly  rising,  she  crossed 
over  toward  her  father,  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  pressed 
her  lips  repeatedly  to  his  reverend  locks. 

The  conversation  between  the  two  disputants  was  not  renewed  ; for 
Charney  was  already  absorbed  in  profound  meditation.  He  could 
not  forbear  inquiring  of  himself  whether  he  were  beloved  in  return 
by  Teresa — a question  which  produced  two  conflicting  sentiments 
in  his  bosom.  He  feared  to  believe,  he  trembled  to  doubt.  The 
flower,  his  gift,  so  carefully  preserved,  the  emotion  evinced  wheu 
their  hands  were  accidentally  united  on  the  knees  of  the  old  man,  the 
tremor  with  which  she  had  listened  to  the  recital  of  his  impassioned 
dreams — all  this  was  in  his  favor.  But  the  words  breathed  with  so 
tender  an  inflection  of  voice  had  been  pronounced  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  father  ; what  sense,  therefore,  dared  he  assign  to  her 
tokens  of  compassion,  her  deeds  of  kindness  and  devotion  ? Had 
she  not  afforded  proofs  of  the  same  good-will  before  they  had  even 
met — before  even  an  interchange  of  looks  and  words  bad  taken  place 
between  them?  Wbat  right  has  he  to  interpret  in  his  favor  the  in- 
dications of  feeling  he  has  since  detected  in  her  deportment  ? 

No  matter  : of  his  own  attachment,  at  least,  he  is  certain.  He  not 
only  loves  Teresa,  but  has  sworn  within  his  heart  of  hearts  to  love 
her  through  life  and  death  ; substituting  for  an  ideal  image,  hence- 
forward superfluous,  one  of  the  most  charming  realities  of  human 
nature. 

But  the  attachment  of  which  he  is  thus  conscious  is  a secret  to  be 
preserved  in  the  inmost  archives  of  his  soul ; it  would  be  a sin,  a 
crime,  to  invoke  the  participation  of  Teresa  in  his  passion.  What 
right  has  he  to  embitter  the  happy  prospects  of  her  life  ? Are  they 
not  destined  to  live  apart  from  each  other  ? she,  free,  happy,  in  the 
midst  of  a world  which  she  embellishes,  and  where  she  will  doubt- 
less soon  confer  happiness  on  another  in  the  bosom  of  domestic  life  ; 
while  he,  in  his  solitary  prison,  must  consecrate  himself  to  eternal 
solitude  and  eternal  regrets  for  liis  momentary  happiness. 

No  ! his  passion  shall  be  sedulously  concealed.  He  will  assume 
toward  Teresa  Girardi  the  demeanor  of  a person  wholly  indifferent, 
or  satisfy  himself  with  the  calm  demonstrations  of  a prudent  and 


124 


PICCIOLA. 


equable  friendship.  It  would  be  too  deep  a misfortune  for  him — for 
both — were  he  to  succeed  in  engaging  her  affections. 

Full  of  these  fine  projects  for  the  future,  the  first  sounds  that  met 
his  ear  oa  the  cessation  of  his  reverie  were  the  following  sentences 
interchanged  between  Teresa  and  her  father,  the  former  of  whom  was 
exerting  all  her  eloquence  to  persuade  the  old  man  that  the  moment 
of  his  liberation  was  at  hand,  while  Girardi  persisted  in  expressing 
a conviction  that  the  remainder  of  the  year  would  expire  without 
producing  any  material  change  in  his  destinies.  “ I know  the  dila- 
toriness of  public  functionaries,”  said  he  ; “I  know  the  vacillations 
of  government.  Bo  little  suffices  as  a pretext  for  the  suspension  of 
justice  and  the  cooling  of  a great  man’s  mercy  !” 

“ If  such  is  your  opinion,”  cried  Teresa,  “ I will  return  to-morrow 
to  Turin,  to  hasten  the  fulfilment  of  their  promises.” 

“ What  need  of  so  much  haste  ?”  demanded  her  father. 

“ How,  dear  father  !”  she  replied,  “ is  it  possible  that  you  prefer 
your  mean  and  narrow  chamber  and  this  wretched  court  to  your 
beautiful  villa  and  gardens  on  the  Collina?” 

This  seeming  anxiety  on  the  part  of  Teresa  to  leave  Fenestrella 
ought  to  have  convinced  Charney  that  he  was  beloved,  and  that  the 
danger  he  dreaded  for  the  object  of  his  romantic  attachment  was 
already  consummated.  But  the  part  he  had  intended  to  play  was 
now  wholly  frustrated.  Instead  of  affecting  indifference,  tranquillity, 
or  even  the  reserve  of  a prudent  friendship,  he  manifested  only  the 
petulance  of  a lover.  Teresa,  however,  remained  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  his  fit  of  perversity,  and  was  not  deterred  by  his  resent- 
ment from  repeating,  that  if  the  decree  for  her  father’s  liberation 
should  be  again  delayed,  it  was  her  duty  to  set  off  for  Turin,  and  re- 
new her  solicitations  to  General  Menon  ; nay,  even  to  Paris,  for  a 
personal  application  to  the  emperor.  Usually  so  reserved  and  mild, 
the  fair  Piedmontese  seemed  excited  on  the  present  occasion  to  un- 
usual vivacity. 

“ I scarcely  understand  you  this  morning,”  said  her  father,  amazed 
to  observe  the  gayety  of  her  deportment  in  presence  of  the  poor  pris- 
oner whom  they  were  about  to  abandon  to  his  misfortunes  ; and  if 
her  father  found  something  to  regret  in  her  demeanor,  how  much 
rather  the  grieved  and  disappointed  Charney  ! 

The  same  reflections  which  had  perplexed  his  mind  the  preceding 
night  had,  in  fact,  been  passing  also  through  the  mind  of  Teresa. 
She  had  discovered,  not  the  arrival  of  Love  in  her  bosom,  but  that 
it  had  long  resided  there  an  unsuspected  inmate  ; and  though,  like 
Charney,  she  would  willingly  have  accepted,  as  regarded  h*er  own 
happiness,  the  perils  and  privations  with  which  it  was  accompanied, 
like  Charney  she  was  reluctant  that  all  these  should  be  inflicted  upon 
another.  The  delight  of  loving,  the  dread  of  being  loved,  threw  her 
into  a state  of  mental  contradiction,  and  produced  the  garrulity  in 
which  she  sought  refuge  from  herself. 


PICCIOLA. 


125 


Soon,  however,  all  this  restraint,  all  these  efforts  to  disguise  their 
real  sentiments,  were  suddenly  dropped  on  both  sides.  After  listen- 
ing attentively  to  the  information  imparted  by  Girardi,  who  men- 
tioned frequent  instances  where  the  pardon  of  prisoners,  though 
publicly  announced,  had  not  been  suffered  to  take  effect  for  many 
succeeding  months,  the  young  people  allowed  themselves  to  be  con- 
vinced, and  with  mutual  and  unconcealed  delight  began  forming 
projects  for  the  morrow  and  succeeding  days,  as  if  henceforward 
the  fortress  of  Fenestrella  were  to  be  the  home  of  their  happiness 
and  choice.  Restored  to  the  society  of  Teresa,  their  guardian  angel, 
the  two  captives  appeared  to  have  but  a single  earthly  misfortune  to 
apprehend,  the  liberation  of  one  of  them  to  disunite  the  little  party. 

Already  the  philosophers  were  resuming  their  arguments  and 
Teresa  her  embroidery.  The  pale  rays  of  the  sun,  partially  illuminat- 
ing the  little  court,  fell  lightly  on  the  countenance  of  Girardi ’s 
daughter,  while  a refreshing  breeze  played  amid  the  folds  of  her 
drapery  and  the  floating  ribbons  by  which  it  was  confined.  At 
length,  excited  by  the  freshness  of  the  atmosphere,  she  threw  aside 
her  work,  rose  from  her  seat,  shook  out  the  ringlets  of  her  raven  hair, 
rejoicing  in  the  return  of  hope  and  sunshine,  when  suddenly  the 
postern-door  was  thrown  open,  and  Captain  Morand,  accompanied 
by  Ludovico  and  a municipal  officer,  made  his  appearance. 

They  came  to  signify  to  Giacomo  Girardi  the  act  of  his  enlarge- 
ment. He  was  to  quit  Fenestrella  without  delay  ; a carriage  was 
in  waiting  at  the  extremity  of  the  glacis  to  convey  him  and  his 
daughter  to  Turin. 

At  the  moment  of  the  commandant’s  arrival,  Teresa  was  standing 
beside  her  father,  but  she  instantly  sank  backward  in  her  chair,  re- 
sumed her  needlework,  and  had  Charney  ventured  a look  toward 
her  he  would  have  been  startled,  on  perceiving  how  instantaneously 
the  hues  of  life  and  health  faded  from  her  cheek.  But  Charney 
neither  stirred  nor  raised  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  while  Girardi 
was  receiving  from  the  hands  of  the  officers  those  papers  and  docu- 
ments  which  were  to  restore  him  with  an  unblemished  reputation  to 
his  station  in  society.  All  was  now  complete,  and  there  was  no 
longer  an  excuse  for  prolonging  the  liberated  prisoner’s  preparations 
for  departure. 

Ludovico  had  already  brought  down  from  Girardi’s  chamber  the 
solitary  trunk  containing  hia  effects  ; the  officers  waited  to  escort  him 
back  to  Turin  ; the  hour  of  parting  had  irrevocably  struck.  Rising 
once  more  from  her  seat,  Teresa  began  deliberately  to  put  up  her 
working  materials  and  arrange  the  scarf  upon  her  shoulders  ; she 
even  tried  to  put  on  her  gloves,  but  her  hands  trembled  too  much  to 
effect  her  purpose. 

Charney  stood  for  a moment  paralyzed  by  the  blow.  Then,  arm- 
ing himself  with  courage,  he  exclaimed,  as  he  threw  himself  into  the 
arms  of  Girardi, 


126 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Farewell,  my  dearest  father  !” 

“ Farewell,  my  son ! farewell,  my  beloved  sod,”  faltered  the  good 
old  man.  “Be  of  good  cheer.  Rely  upon  our  exertions  in  your 
behalf  ; rely  on  the  steadiness  of  our  affection.  Adieu,  adieu  !” 

For  some  moments  longer  Girardi  held  him  pressed  to  his  heart ; 
then,  by  a sudden  effort  relinquishing  his  warm  embrace,  turned 
toward  Ludovico,  and,  by  way  of  concealing  his  own  emotion, 
affected  to  busy  himself  by  giving  in  charge  of  the  jailer  the  friend 
he  was  about  to  leave  ; to  which  the  poor  fellow,  perfectly  compre- 
hending the  old  man’s  motives,  replied  only  by  offering  the  support 
of  his  arm  to  conduct  his  faltering  steps  to  the  carriage. 

Charney  meanwhile  drew  near  to  Teresa  for  the  purpose  of  a last 
farewell.  Leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground,  she  stood  motionless,  speechless,  as  if  there 
were  no  question  of  quitting  the  place.  Even  when  the  count  ad- 
vanced toward  her,  she  remained  for  some  moments  without  speak- 
ing, till,  irresistibly  moved  by  his  paleness  and  agitation,  she  ex- 
claimed, “I  call  our  Picciola  to  witness  that — ” But  Teresa  was 
not  able  to  complete  the  sentence  ; her  heart  was  too  full  to  utter 
another  syllable.  One  of  her  gloves  at  that  moment  escaped  her 
trembling  hand,  which  Charney  picked  up,  and,  ere  he  restored  it, 
raised  it  silently  to  his  Mps. 

“Keep  it!”  said  she,  while  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks; 
“ keep  it  till  we  meet  again.” 

Another  moment  and  she  was  following  her  father.  They  were 
gone  ! All  was  dark  in  the  destinies  of  the  Count  de  Charney.  After 
watching  the  closing  of  the  postern-door,  he  stood  like  one  petrified, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  spot  where  they  had  disappeared,  his 
hand  still  grasping  convulsively  the  parting  pledge  bestowed  upon 
him  by  Teresa. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A philosopher  has  remarked  that  greatness  must  be  renounced 
before  it  can  be  appreciated  ; the  same  thing  might  have  been  said 
of  fortune,  happiness,  or  any  mode  of  enjoyment  liable  to  become 
habitual. 

Never  had  the  poor  captive  of  Fenestrella  so  venerated  the  wisdom 
of  Girardi,  the  charms  and  virtues  of  his  daughter,  as  after  the 
departure  of  his  two  companions  ! Profound  sadness  succeeded  to 
his  momentary  elation.  The  efforts  of  Ludovico,  the  attentions  re- 
quired by  Picciola,  were  insufficient  to  divert  his  attention  from  his 
sorrows.  But  at  length  the  sources  of  consolation  he  had  derived 
from  the  study  of  nature  brought  forth  their  fruit,  and  the  depressed 
Charney  gradually  resumed  his  strength  of  mind. 


PICCIOLA. 


127 


His  last  stroke  of  affliction  liad  perfected  the  happy  frame  of  his 
feelings.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  bless  the  loneliness  which 
afforded  his  whole  leisure  to  muse  upon  his  absent  friends  ; but  event  • 
ually  he  learned  to  behold  with  satisfaction  a new  guest  seated  in  the 
vacant  place  of  the  old  man. 

His  first  and  most  assiduous  visitor  was  the  chaplain  of  the  prison, 
even  the  worthy  priest  whom  during  his  illness  he  had  so  harshly 
repulsed.  Apprised  by  Ludovico  of  the  state  of  despair  to  which 
the  prisoner  was  reduced,  he  made  his  appearance,  forgetful  of  the 
past,  to  offer  his  good  offices,  which  were  received  with  courtesy 
and  gratitude.  More  amicably  disposed  than  formerly  toward  man- 
kind, the  count  soon  became  favorably,  nay,  even  affectionately  dis- 
posed toward  the  man  of  God  ; and  the  rustic  seat  became  once  more 
the  Bench  of  Conference.  The  philosopher,  loved  to  enlarge  upon  the 
wonders  of  his  plant,  the  wonders  of  nature,  and  repeat  the  lessons  ol 
the  excellent  Girardi  ; while  the  priest,  without  bringing  forward  a 
single  dogma  of  religion,  contented  himself  in  the  first  instance  with 
reciting  the  sublime  moral  lessons  of  Christianity,  grounding  their 
strength  upon  the  principles  already  imbibed  by  the  votary  of  natural 
religion. 

The  second  visitor  was  the  commandant ; and  Charney  now  dis- 
covered that  Morand  was  essentially  a good  sort  of  man,  whose  heart 
Was  militarily  disciplined — that  is,  disposed  to  torment  the  unfortu- 
nate beings  under  his  charge  no  further  than  he  was  necessitated  by 
the  letter  of  government  instructions.  80  just,  too,  did  he  show 
himself  in  his  appreciation  of  the  merits  of  the  two  prisoners  recently 
released,  as  almost  to  put  Charney  into  good  humor  with  petty  tyr- 
anny. 

But  all  this  was  soon  to  end  ; and  it  became  Charney’s  turn  to  bid 
adieu  to  the  priest  and  the  captain.  One  fine  day,  when  least  pre- 
pared for  the  concession,  the  gates  of  his  prison  opened,  and  he  was 
set  at  liberty  ! 

On  Napoleon’s  return  from  Austerlitz,  incessantly  importuned  by 
Josephine  (who  had  probably  some  person  besetting  her  in  turn  with 
supplications  in  favor  of  the  prisoner  of  Fenestrella),  the  emperor 
caused  an  inquiry  to  be  made  into  the  nature  of  the  papers  seized 
among  the  effects  of  the  Count  de  Charney.  The  cambric  manuscripts 
were  accordingly  ,forwarded  to  the  Tuileries  from  the  archives  of 
the  police,  where  they  had  been  deposited  ; and,  attracted  by  the 
singularity  of  their  appearance,  Napoleon  himself  deigned  to  inves- 
tigate the  indications  of  treason  contained  in  their  mysterious 
records. 

“The  Count  de  Charney  is  a madman,”  exclaimed  the  emperor, 
after  most  deliberate  examination  ; “a  visionary  and  a madman,  but 
not  the  dangerous  person  represented  to  me.  He  who  could  submit 
his  powers  of  mind  to  the  influence  of  a sorry  weed  may  have  in  him 
the  making  of  an  excellent  botanist,  but  not  of  a conspirator.  He  is 


128 


PICCIOLA. 


pardoned  ! Let  his  estates  be  restored  to  him,  that  he  may  cultivate 
there  unmolested  his  own  fields  and  his  taste  for  natural  history.” 

Need  it  be  added  that  the  count  did  not  loiter  at  Fenestrella  after 
receiving  this  welcome  intelligence  ? or  that  he  did  not  quit  the  for- 
tress alone?  but,  transplanted  into  a solid  case,,  filled  with  good  earth, 
Picciola  made  her  triumphal  exit  from  her  gloomy  birthplace  ; Pic- 
ciola,  to  whom  he  owed  his  life— nay,  more  than  life — his  insight 
into  the  wondrous  works  of  God,  and  the  joys  resulting  from  peace 
and  good-will  toward  mankind  ; Picciola,  by  whom  he  has  been  be- 
trayed into  the  toils  of  love  ; Picciola,  through  whose  influence, 
finally,  he  is  released  from  bondage  ! 

As  Charney  was  about  to  cross  the  drawbridge  of  the  citadel,  a 
rude  hand  was  suddenly  extended  toward  him.  “ Eccellenza !”  said 
Ludovico,  repressing  his  rising  emotion,  “give  us  your  hand  ! — we 
may  be  friends  now  that  you  are  going  away,  now  that  you  are  about 
to  leave  us,  now  that  we  shall  see  your  face  no  more  ! Thank 
Heaven,  we  may  now  be  friends  !” 

Charney  heartily  embraced  him.  “We  shall  meet  again,  my  good 
Ludovico,”  cried  he  ; “ I promise  you  that  you  do  not  see  me  for 
the  last  time.”  And  having  shaken  both  the  hands  of  the  jailer  again 
and  again  with  the  utmost  cordiality,  the  count  quitted  the  fortress. 

After  his  carriage  had  traversed  the  esplanade  and  left  far  behind 
the  mountain  on  which  the  citadel  is  situated,  crossed  the  bridge  over 
the  Clusone,  and  attained  the  Suza  road,  a voice  still  continued  cry- 
ing aloud  from  the  ramparts,  “ Addio , Signor  Conte  ! Addio,  addio, 
Picciola  /” 

********** 

Six  months  afterward,  a rich  equipage  stopped  at  the  gate  of  the 
state  prison  of  Fenestrella,  from  which  alighted  a traveller  inquiring 
for  Ludovico  Ritti : the  former  prisoner  was  come  to  pay  a visit  to 
his  jailer  ! A young  lady,  richly  attired,  was  leaning  tenderly  upon 
his  arm— Teresa  Girardi,  now  Countess  de  Charney.  Together  the 
young  couple  visited  the  little  court,  and  the  miserable  camera,  so 
long  the  abode  of  weariness,  scepticism,  and  despair.  Of  all  the  sen- 
tences which  had  formerly  disfigured  the  wall,  one  only  had  been 
suffered  to  remain  : 

“ Learning,  wit,  beauty,  youth,  fortune,  are  insufficient  to  confer 
happiness  upon  man.” 

To  which  the  gentle  hand  of  Teresa  now  added,  “If  unshared 
by  affection  ;”  and  a kiss  deposited  by  Charney  upon  her  lovety 
cheek  seemed  to  confirm  her  emendation. 

The  count  was  come  to  request  Ludovico  would  stand  godfather 
to  his  first-born  child,  which  was  to  make  its  appearance  before  the 
close  of  the  year  ; and  the  object  of  (heir  mission  accomplished,  the 
young  couple  proceeded  to  Turin,  where,  in  his  beautiful  villa, 
Girardi  was  awaiting  l heir  return. 


PICCIOLA. 


129 


There,  in  a garden  closely  adjoining  his  own  apartment,  in  the 
centre  of  a rich  parterre,  warmed  and  brightened  by  the  beams  of 
the  setting  sun,  Charney  had  deposited  his  beloved  plant,  out  of  reach 
of  all  danger  or  obstruction.  By  his  especial  order,  no  hand  but  his 
own  was  to  minister  to  her  culture.  He  alone  was  to  watch  over 
Picciola.  It  was  an  occupation,  a duty,  a tax  eternally  adopted  by 
his  gratitude. 

How  quickly,  how  enchantingly  did  his  days  now  glide  along  ! In 
the  midst  of  exquisite  gardens,  on  the  banks  of  a beautiful  stream, 
under  an  auspicious  sky,  Charney  was  the  happiest  of  the  human 
kind  ! Time  imparted  only  additional  strength  to  the  ties  in  which 
he  had  enchained  himself,  as  the  ivy  cements  and  consolidates  the 
wall  it  embraces.  The  friendship  of  Girardi,  the  tenderness  of  Te- 
resa, the  attachment  of  all  who  resided  under  his  roof,  conspired  to 
form  his  happiness,  perfected  at  the  happy  moment  when  he  heard 
himself  saluted  as  a father. 

Charney ’s  affection  for  his  son  soon  seemed  to  rival  that  he  bore 
his  young  and  lovely  wife.  He  was  never  weary  of  contemplating 
and  adoring  them,  and  could  scarcely  make  up  his  mind  to  lose 
sight  of  them  for  a moment.  And  lo  ! when  Ludovico  Ritti  arrived 
from  Fenestrella,  to  fulfil  his  promise  to  the  count,  and  proceeded  to 
visit,  in  the  first  instance,  his  original  goddaughter — the  god- 
daughter of  the  prison — he  found  that,  amid  all  this  domestic  happi- 
ness, all  these  transports  of  joy  and  affection,  all  the  rapture  and 
prosperity  brightening  the  home  of  the  Count  and  Countess  de  Char- 
ney, Picciola  had  been  forgotten — La  Povera  Picciola  had  died  of  neg- 
lect, unnoticed  and  unlamented.  The  appointed  task  was  over.  The 
herb  of  grace  had  nothing  further  to  unfold  to  the  happy  husband, 
father,  and  believer  ! 


THE  END. 


UNDINE 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOW  THE  KNIGHT  CAME  TO  THE  FISHERMAN. 

There  was  once,  it  may  be  now  many  hundred  years  ago,  a good 
old  fisherman,  who  was  sitting  one  fine  evening  before  his  door, 
mending  his  nets.  The  part  of  the  country  in  which  he  lived  was 
extremely  pretty.  The  greensward  on  which  his  cottage  stood  ran 
far  into  the  lake,  and  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  from  love  for  the  blue 
clear  waters  that  the  tongue  of  land  had  stretched  itself  out  into 
them,  while  with  an  equally  fond  embrace  the  lake  had  encircled  the 
green  pasture  rich  with  weaving  grass  and  flowers  and  the  refreshing 
shade  of  trees.  The  one  welcomed  the  other,  and  it  was  just  this 
that  made  each  so  beautiful.  There  were  indeed  few  human  beings, 
or  rather  none  at  all,  to  be  met  with  on  this  pleasant  spot,  except  the 
fisherman  and  his  family.  For  at  the  back  of  this  little  promontory 
there  lay  a very  wild  forest,  which,  both  from  its  gloom  and  pathless 
solitude  as  well  as  from  the  wonderful  creatures  and  illusions  with 
which  it  was  said  to  abound,  was  avoided  by  most  people  except  in 
cases  of  necessity. 

The  pious  old  fisherman,  however,  passed  through  it  many  a time 
undisturbed,  when  he  was  taking  the  choice  fish,  which  he  had 
caught  at  his  beautiful  home,  to  a large  town  situated  not  far  from 
the  confines  of  the  forest.  The  principal  reason  why  it  was  so  easy 
for  him  to  pass  through  this  forest  was  because  the  tone  of  his 
thoughts  was  almost  entirely  of  a religious  character,  and  besides 
this,  whenever  he  set  foot  upon  the  evil  reputed  shades  he  was  wont 
to  sing  some  holy  song,  with  a clear  voice  and  a sincere  heart. 

While  sitting  over  his  nets  this  evening,  unsuspicious  of  any  evil, 
a sudden  fear  came  upon  him,  at  the  sound  of  a rustling  in  the  gloom 
of  the  forest  as  of  a horse  and  rider,  the  noise  approaching  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  little  promontory.  All  that  he  had  dreamed,  in  many 
a stormy  night,  of  the  mysteries  of  the  forest,  now  flashed  at  once 
through  his  mind  ; foremost  of  all,  the  image  of  a gigantic  snow- 


4 


UNDINE. 


white  man,  who  kept  unceasingly  nodding  his  head  in  a portentous 
manner.  Indeed,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  toward  the  wood  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  actually  saw  the  nodding  man  approaching 
through  the  dense  foliage.  He  soon,  however,  reassured  himself,  re- 
flecting that  nothing  serious  had  ever  befallen  him  even  in  the  forest 
itself,  and  that  upon  this  open  tongue  of  land  the  evil  spirit  would  be 
still  less  daring  in  the  exercise  of  his  power.  At  the  same  time  he  re- 
peated aloud  a text  from  the  Bible  with  all  his  heart,  and  this  so  in- 
spired him  with  courage  that  he  almost  smiled  at  the  illusion  he  had 
allowed  to  possess  him  The  white  nodding  man  was  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  a brook  long  familiar  to  him,  which  ran  foaming  from 
the  forest  and  discharged  itself  into  the  lake.  The  noise,  however, 
which  he  had  heard  was  caused  by  a knight  beautifully  apparelled, 
who,  emerging  from  the  deep  shadows  of  the  wood,  came  riding 
toward  the  cottage.  A scarlet  mantle  was  thrown  over  his  purple 
gold-embroidered  doublet,  a red  and  violet  plume  waved  from  his 
golden-colored  head-gear,  and  a beautiful  and  richly  ornamented 
sword  flashed  from  his  shoulder-belt.  The  white  steed  that  bore  the 
knight  was  more  slenderly  formed  than  war-horses  generally  are,  and 
he  stepped  so  lightly  over  the  turf  that  this  green  and  flowery  carpet 
seemed  scarcely  to  receive  the  slightest  injury  from  his  tread. 

The  old  fisherman  did  not,  however,  feel  perfectly  secure  in  his 
mind,  although  he  tried  to  convince  himself  that  no  evil  was  to  be 
feared  from  so  graceful  an  apparition  ; and  therefore  he  politely  took 
off  his  hat  as  the  knight  approached,  and  remained  quietly  with  his 
nets. 

Presently  the  stranger  drew  up,  and  inquired  whether  he  and  his 
horse  could  have  shelter  and  care  for  the  night.  “ As  regards  your 
horse,  good  sir,”  replied  the  fisherman,  “ I can  assign  him  no  better 
stable  than  this  shady  pasture,  and  no  better  provender  than  the 
grass  growing  on  it.  Yourself,  however,  I will  gladly  welcome  to 
my  small  cottage,  and  give  you  supper  and  lodging  as  good  as  we 
have.”  The  knight  was  well  satisfied  with  this  ; he  alighted  from 
his  horse,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  fisherman,  he  relieved  it 
from  saddle  and  bridle  and  turned  it  loose  upon  the  flowery  green. 
Then  addressing  his  host  he  said,  “ Even  had  I found  you  less  hos- 
pitable and  kindly  disposed,  my  worthy  old  fisherman,  you  would 
nevertheless  scarcely  have  got  rid  of  me  to-day,  for,  as  I see,  a broad 
lake  lies  before  us,  and  to  ride  back  into  that  mysterious  wood,  with 
the  shades  of  evening  coming  on,  Heaven  keep  me  from  it !”  “We 
will  not  talk  too  much  of  that,”  said  the  fisherman,  and  he  led  his 
guest  into  the  cottage. 

There,  beside  the  hearth,  from  which  a scanty  fire  shed  a dim  light 
through  the  cleanly  kept  room,  sat  the  fisherman’s  aged  wife  in  a 
capacious  chair.  At  the  entrance  of  the  noble  guest  she  rose  to  give 
him  a kindly  welcome,  but  resumed  her  seat  of  honor  without  offer- 
ing it  to  the  stranger.  Upon  this  the  fisherman  said,  with  a smile, 


UNDINE. 


5 


“You  must  not  take  it  amiss  of  her,  young  sir,  that  she  has  not 
given  up  to  you  the  most  comfortable  seat  in  the  house  ; it  is  a cus- 
tom among  poor  people  that  it  should  belong  exclusively  to  the 
aged.”  “ Why,  husband,”  said  the  wife,  with  a quiet  smile,  “ what 
can  you  be  thinking  of  ? Our  guest  belongs  no  doubt  to  Christian 
men,  and  how  could  it  come  into  the  head  of  the  good  young  blood 
to  drive  old  people  from  their  chairs  ? Take  a seat,  my  young  mas- 
ter,” she  continued,  turning  toward  the  knight  ; “ over  there,  there 
is  a right  pretty  little  chair,  only  you  must  not  move  about  on  it  too 
roughly,  for  one  of  its  legs  is  no  longer  of  the  firmest.”  The  knight 
fetched  the  chair  carefully,  sat  down  upon  it  good-humoredly,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  related  to  this  little  household  and  had 
just  returned  from  abroad. 

The  three  worthy  people  now  began  to  talk  together  in  the  most 
friendly  and  familiar  manner.  With  regard  to  the  forest,  about 
which  the  knight  made  some  inquiries,  the  old  man  was  not  inclined 
to  be  communicative  ; he  felt  it  was  not  a subject  suited  to  approach- 
ing night,  but  the  aged  couple  spoke  freely  of  their  home  and  former 
life,  and  listened  also  gladly  when  the  knight  recounted  to  them  his 
travels,  and  told  them  that  he  had  a castle  near  the  source  of  the 
Danube,  and  that  his  name  was  Sir  Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten.  Dur- 
ing the  conversation  the  stranger  had  already  occasionally  heard  a 
splash  against  the  little  low  window,  as  if  some  one  were  sprinkling 
water  against  it.  Every  time  the  noise  occurred  the  old  man  knit 
his  brow  with  displeasure  ; but  when  at  last  a whole  shower  was 
dashed  against  the  panes  and  bubbled  into  the  room  through  the  de- 
cayed casement,  he  rose  angrily,  and  called  threateningly  from  the 
window,  “ Undine  ! will  you  for  once  leave  off  these  childish  tricks  ? 
and  to-day,  besides,  there  is  a stranger  knight  with  us  in  the  cottage.” 
All  was  silent  without,  only  a suppressed  laugh  was  audible,  and  the 
fisherman  said,  as  he  returned,  “ You  must  pardon  it  in  her,  my 
honored  guest,  and  perhaps  many  a naughty  trick  besides  ; but  she 
means  no  harm  by  it.  It  is  our  foster-child,  Undine,  and  she  will 
not  wean  herself  from  this  childishness  although  she  has  already  en- 
tered her  eighteenth  year.  But,  as  I said,  at  heart  she  is  thoroughly 
good.” 

“ You  may  well  talk,”  replied  the  old  woman,  shaking  her 
head  ; “ when  you  come  home  from  fishing  or  from  a journey  her 
frolics  may  then  be  very  delightful,  but  to  have  her  about  one  th© 
whole  day  long,  and  never  to  hear  a sensible  word,  and  instead  of 
finding  her  a help  in  the  housekeeping  as  she  grows  older,  always  to 
be  obliged  to  be  taking  care  that  her  follies  do  not  completely  ruin 
us,  that  is  quite  another  thing,  and  the  patience  of  a saint  would  be 
worn  out  at  last.”  “Well,  well,”  said  her  husband  with  a smile, 
“ you  have  your  troubles  with  Undine  and  I have  mine  with  the  lake. 
It  often  breaks  away  my  dams  and  tears  my  nets  to  pieces,  but  for 
all  that  I have  an  affection  for  it,  and  so  have  you  for  the  pretty 
M.  C. — 14 


<5 


undine. 


child,  in  spite  of  all  your  crosses  and  vexations.  Isn’t  it  so  ?”  “One 
ean’t  be  very  angry  with  her,  certainly,”  said  the  old  woman,  and 
she  smiled  approvingly. 

Just  then  the  door  flew  open  and  a beautiful  fair  girl  glided  laugh- 
ing into  the  room,  and  said,  “ You  have  only  been  jesting,  father, 
for  where  is  your  guest  ?” 

At  the  same  moment,  however,  she  perceived  the  knight,  and  stood 
fixed  with  astonishment  before  the  handsome  youth.  Huldbrand 
was  struck  with  her  charming  appearance,  and  dwelt  the  more  ear- 
nestly on  her  lovely  features,  as  he  imagined  it  was  only  her  surprise 
that  gave  him  this  brief  enjoyment,  and  that  she  would  presently 
turn  from  his  gaze  with  increased  bashfulness.  It  was,  however, 
quite  otherwise  ; for  after  having  looked  at  him  for  some  time  she 
drew  near  him  confidingly,  knelt  down  before  him,  and  said,  as  she 
played  with  a gold  medal  which  he  wore  on  his  breast,  suspended 
from  a rich  chain,  “Why,  you  handsome  kind  guest,  how  have 
you  come  to  our  poor  cottage  at  last  ? Have  you  been  obliged  then 
to  wander  through  the  world  for  years  before  you  could  find  your 
way  to  us  ? Do  you  come  out  of  that  wild  forest,  my  beautiful 
knight  ?”  The  old  woman’s  reproof  allowed  him  no  lime  for  reply. 
She  admonished  the  girl  to  stand  up  and  behave  herself  and  to  go  to 
her  work.  Undine,  however,  without  making  any  answer,  drew  a 
little  footstool  close  to  Huldbrand’s  chair,  sat  down  upon  it  with  her 
spinning,  and  said  pleasantly,  “ I will  wTork  here.”  The  old  man 
did  as  parents  are  wont  to  do  with  spoiled  children.  He  affected  to 
observe  nothing  of  Undine’s  naughtiness,  and  was  beginning  to  talk 
of  something  else.  But  this  the  girl  would  not  let  him  do  ; she 
said,  “ I have  asked  our  charming  guest  whence  he  comes,  and  he 
has  not  yet  answered  me.”  “ I come  from  the  forest,  you  beautiful 
little  vision,”  returned  Huldbrand.  And  she  went  on  to  sayr  “ Thet 
you  must  tell  me  how  you  came  there,  for  it  is  usually  so  feared, 
and  what  marvellous  avdentures  you  met  with  in  it,  for  it  is  impos- 
sible to  escape  withot  something  of  the  sort.” 

Huldbrand  felt  a slight  shudder  at  this  remembrance,  and  looked 
involuntarily  toward  the  window,  for  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  one  of 
the  strange  figure  he  had  encountered  in  the  forest  were  grinning  in 
there  ; but  he  saw  nothing  but  the  deep  dark  night,  which  had  now 
shrouded  everything  without.  Upon  this  he  composed  himself,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  beginning  his  little  history  when  the  old  man  in- 
terrupted him  by  saying,  “ Not  so,  Sir  Knight  ! this  is  no  fit  hour  for 
such  thing.”  Undine,  however,  sprang  angrily  from  her  little 
stool,  and  standing  straight  before  the  fisherman,  with  her  fair  arms 
fixed  in  her  sides,  she  exclaimed,  “He  shall  not  tell  his  story, 
father  ? He  shall  not  ? but  it  is  my  will  ; he  shall  ! He  shall  in 
spite  of  you!”  and  thus  saying  she  stamped  her  pretty  little  foot 
vehemently  on  the  floor,  but  she  did  it  all  with  such  a comically  grace- 
ful air  that  Huldbrand  now  felt  his  gaze  almost  more  riveted  upon 


UNDINE. 


7 


her  in  her  anger  than  before  in  her  gentleness.  The  restrained  wrath 
of  the  old  man,  on  the  contrary,  burst  forth  violently.  He  severely 
reproved  Undine’s  disobedience  aud  unbecoming  behavior  to  the 
stranger,  and  his  good  old  wife  joined  with  him  heartily.  Undine 
quickly  retorted*  “ If  you  want  to  chide  me,  and  won’t  do  what  I 
wish,  then  sleep  alone  in  your  old  smoky  liut!”  and  swift  as  an 
arrow  she  flew  from  the  room  and  fled  into  the  dark  night. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  WHAT  WAY  UNDINE  HAD  COME  TO  THE  FISHERMAN. 

Huldbrand  and  the  fisherman  sprang  from  their  seats  and  were 
on  the  point  of  following  the  angry  girl.  Before  they  reached  the 
cottage  door,  however,  Undine  had  long  vanished  in  the  shadowy 
darkness  without,  and  not  even  the  sound  of  her  light  footstep  be- 
trayed the  direction  of  her  flight.  Huldbrand  looked  inquiringly  at 
his  host  ; it  almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  whole  sweet  apparition 
which  had  suddenly  merged  again  into  the  night  were  nothing  else 
th^n  one  of  that  band  of  the  wonderful  forms  which  had,  but  a short 
time  since,  carried  on  their  pranks  with  him  in  the  forest.  But  the 
old  mau  murmured  between  his  teeth,  “ This  is  not  the  first  time 
that  she  has  treated  us  in  this  way.  Now  we  have  aching  hearts 
and  sleepless  eyes  the  whole  night  through  ; for  who  knows  that  she 
may  not  some  day  come  to  harm  if  she  is  thus  out  alone  in  the  dark 
until  daylight.”  “ Then  let  us  for  God’s  sake  follow  her,”  cried 
Huldbrand  anxiously.  “ What  would  be  the  good  of  it?”  replied 
the  old  man.  “ It  would  be  a sin  were  I to  allow  you,  all  alone,  to 
follow  the  foolish  girl  in  the  solitary  night,  and  my  old  limbs  would 
not  overtake  the  wild  runaway,  even  if  we  knew  in  what  direction 
she  had  gone.”  “We  had  better  at  any  rate  call  after  her  and  beg 
her  to  come  back,”  said  Huldbrand;  and  he  began  to  call,  in  the 
most  earnest  manner,  “ Undine  ! Undine  ! pray  come  back  !”  The 
old  man  shook  his  head,  saying  that  all  that  shouting  would  help 
but  little,  for  the  knight  had  no  idea  how  self-willed  the  little  truant 
was.  But  still  he  could  not  forbear  often  calling  out  with  him  in 
the  dark  night,  ‘‘Undine!  Ah,  dear  Undine,  I beg  you  to  come 
back — only  this  once  !” 

It  turned  out,  however,  as  the  fisherman  had  said.  No  Undine 
was  to  be  heard  or  seen,  and  as  the  old  man  would  on  no  account 
consent  that  Huldbrand  should  go  in  search  of  the  fugitive,  they  were 
at  last  both  obliged  to  return  to  the  cottage.  Here  they  found  the 
fire  on  the  hearth  almost  gone  out,  and  the  old  wife,  who  took  Un- 
dine’s flight  and  danger  far  less  to  heart  than  her  husband,  had  al- 


8 


UKDIKE. 


ready  retired  to  rest.  The  old  man  blew  up  the  fire,  laid  some  dry 
wood  on  it,  and  by  the  light  of  the  flame  sought  out  a tankard  of 
wine,  which  he  placed  between  himself  and  his  guest.  “You,  Sir 
Knight,”  said  he,  “are  also  anxious  about  that  silly  girl,  and  we 
would  both  rather  chatter  and  drink  away  a part  of  the  night  than 
keep  turning  round  on  our  rush  mats  trying  in  vain  to  sleep.  Is  it 
not  so  ?”  Huldbrand  was  well  satisfied  with  the  plan  ; the  fisherman 
obliged  him  to  take  the  seat  of  honor  vacated  by  the  good  old  house- 
wife, and  both  drank  and  talked  together  in  a manner  becoming  two 
honest  and  trusting  men.  It  is  true,  as  often  as  the  slightest  thing 
moved  before  the  windows,  or  even  at  times  when  nothing  was  mov- 
ing, one  of  the  two  would  look  up  and  say,  “ She  is  coming  !”  Then 
they  would  be  silent  for  a moment  or  two,  and  as  nothing  appeared 
they  would  shake  their  heads  and  sigh  and  go  on  with  their  talk. 

As,  however,  neither  could  think  of  anything  but  of  Undine,  they 
knew  of  nothing  better  to  do,  than  that  the  old  fisherman  should  tell 
the  story,  and  the  knight  should  hear  in  what  manner  Undine  had 
first  come  to  the  cottage.  He  therefore  began  as  follows  : 

“ It  is  now  about  fifteen  years  ago  that  I was  one  day  crossing  the 
wild  forest  with  my  goods,  on  my  way  to  the  city.  My  wife  had 
stayed  at  home,  as  her  wont  is,  and  at  this  particular  time  for  a very 
good  reason,  for  God  had  given  us,  in  our  tolerably  advanced  age,  a 
wonderfully  beautiful  child.  It  was  a little  girl ; and  a question  al- 
ready arose  between  us,  whether  for  the  sake  of  the  newcomer  we 
would  not  leave  our  lovely  home  that  we  might  better  bring  up  this 
dear  gift  of  Heaven  in  some  more  habitable  place.  Poor  people  in- 
deed cannot  do  in  such  cases  as  you  may  think  they  ought,  Sir 
Knight,  but,  with  God’s  blessing,  every  one  must  do  what  he  can. 
Well,  the  matter  was  tolerably  in  my  head  as  I went  along.  This 
slip  of  land  was  so  dear  to  me,  and  I shuddered  when,  amid  the 
noise  and  brawls  of  the  city,  I thought  to  myself,  ‘ In  such  scenes  as 
these,  or  in  one  not  much  more  quiet,  thou  wilt  also  soon  make  thy 
abode  ! ’ But  at  the  same  time  I did  not  murmur  against  the  good 
God  ; on  the  contrary  I thanked  him  in  secret  for  the  new-born  babe  ; 
I should  be  telling  a lie,  too,  were  I to  say  that  on  my  journey 
through  the  wood,  going  or  returning,  anything  befell  me  out  of  the 
common  way,  and  at  that  time  I had  never  seen  any  of  its  fearful 
wonders.  The  Lord  was  ever  with  me  in  those  mysterious 
shades.” 

As  he  spoke  he  took  his  little  cap  from  his  bald  head,  and  re- 
mained for  a time  occupied  with  prayerful  thoughts  ; he  then  cov- 
ered himself  again  and  continued  : 

“ On  this  side  the  forest,  alas  ! a sorrow  awaited  me.  My  wife 
came  to  meet  me  with  tearful  eyes  and  clad  in  mourning.  ‘ Oh  ! 
good  God  ! ’ I groaned,  'where  is  our  dear  child?  speak  !’  ‘With 
Him  on  whom  you  have  called,  dear  husband,  ’ she  replied  ; and  we 
now  entered  the  cottage  together  weeping  silently.  I looked  around 


UNDINE. 


9 


for  the  little  corpse,  and  it  was  then  only  that  I learned  how  it  had 
all  happened. 

“ My  wife  had  been  sitting  with  the  child  on  the  edge  of  the  lake, 
and  as  she  was  playing  with  it,  free  of  all  fear  and  full  of  happiness, 
the  little  one  suddenly  bent  forward,  as  if  attracted  by  something 
very  beautiful  in  the  water.  My  wife  saw  her  laugh,  the  dear  angel, 
and  stretch  out  her  little  hands  ; but  in  a moment  she  had  sprung 
out  of  her  mother’s  arms  and  had  sunk  beneath  the  watery  mirror. 
I sought  long  for  our  little  lost  one  ; but  it  was  all  in  vain  ; there 
was  no  trace  of  her  to  be  found. 

“ The  same  evening  we,  childless  parents,  were  sitting  silently  to- 
gether in  the  cottage  ; neither  of  us  had  any  desire  to  talk,  even  had 
our  tears  allowed  us.  We  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  on  the  hearth. 
Presently  we  heard  something  rustling  outside  the  door  ; it  flew 
open,  and  a beautiful  little  girl  three  or  four  years  old,  richly 
dressed,  stood  on  the  threshold  smiling  at  us.  We  were  quite  dumb 
with  astonishment,  and  I knew  not  at  first  whether  it  were  a vision 
or  a reality.  But  I saw  the  water  dripping  from  her  golden  hair 
and  rich  garments,  and  I perceived  that  the  pretty  child  had  been 
lying  in  the  water  and  needed  help.  ‘ Wife  ’ said  I,  ‘ no  one  has 
been  able  to  save  our  dear  child  ; yet  let  us  at  any  rate  do  for  others 
what  would  have  made  us  so  blessed.  ’ We  undressed  the  little  one, 
put  her  to  bed,  and  gave  her  something  warm  ; at  all  this  she  spoke 
not  a word,  and  only  fixed  her  eyes,  that  reflected  the  blue  of  the  lake 
and  of  the  sky,  smilingly  upon  us. 

“ Next  morning  we  quickly  perceived  that  she  had  taken  no  harm 
from  her  wetting,  and  1 now  inquired  about  her  parents,  and  how 
she  had  come  here. 

“ But  she  gave  a confused  and  strange  account.  She  must  have  been 
born  far  from  here,  not  only  because  for  these  fifteen  years  I have 
not  been  able  to  find  out  anything  of  her  parentage,  but  because  she 
then  spoke,  and  at  times  still  speaks,  of  such  singular  things,  that 
such  as  we  are  cannot  tell  but  that  she  may  have  dropped  upon  us 
from  the  moon.  She  talks  of  golden  castles,  of  crystal  domes,  and 
Heaven  knows  what  besides.  The  story  that  she  told  with  most  dis- 
tinctness was  that  she  was  out  in  a boat  with  her  mother  on  the  great 
lake  and  fell  into  the  water,  and  that  she  only  recovered  her  senses 
here  under  the  trees,  where  she  felt  herself  quite  happy  on  the  merry 
shore. 

“We  had  still  a great  misgiving  and  perplexity  weighing  on  our 
heart.  We  had  indeed  soon  decided  to  keep  the  child  we  had  found, 
and  to  bring  her  up  in  the  place  of  our  lost  darling  ; but  who  could 
tell  us  whether  she  had  been  baptized  or  not  ? She  herself  could  give 
us  no  information  on  the  matter.  She  generally  answered  our  ques- 
tions by  saying  that  she  well  knew  she  was  created  for  God’s  praise 
and  glory,  and  that  she  was  ready  to  let  us  do  with  her  whatever 
would  tend  to  his  honor  and  glory. 


10 


UNDINE. 


“ My  wife  and  1 thought  that  if  she  were  not  baptized  there  was 
no  time  for  delay,  and  that  if  she  were,  a good  thing  could  not  be  re- 
peated too  often.  And  in  pursuance  of  this  idea  we  reflected  upon 
a good  name  for  the  child,  for  we  now  were  often  at  a loss  to  know 
what  to  call  her.  We  agreed  at  last  that  Dorothea  would  be  most 
suitable  for  her,  for  I had  once  heard  that  it  meant  a gift  of  Qod,  and 
she  had  surely  been  sent  to  us  by  God  as  a gift  and  comfort  in  our 
misery.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  would  not  hear  of  this,  and  told  us 
that  she  thought  she  had  been  called  Undine  by  her  parents,  and  that 
Undine  she  wished  still  to  be  called.  Now  this  appeared  to  me  a 
heathenish  name,  not  to  be  found  in  any  calendar,  and  I took  counsel 
therefore  of  a priest  in  the  city.  He  also  would  not  hear  of  the  name 
of  Undine,  but  at  my  earnest  request  he  came  with  me  through  the 
mysterious  forest  in  order  to  perform  the  rite  of  baptism  here  in  my 
cottage.  The  little  one  stood  before  us  so  prettily  arrayed  and  looked 
so  charming  that  the  priest’s  heart  was  at  once  moved  within  him, 
and  she  flattered  him  so  prettily  and  braved  him  so  merrily  that  at 
last  he  could  no  longer  remember  the  objections  he  had  had  ready 
against  the  name  of  Undine.  She  was  therefore  baptized  ‘ Undine,’ 
and  during  the  sacred  ceremony  she  behaved  with  great  propriety 
and  sweetness,  wild  and  restless  as  she  invariably  was  at  other 
times.  For  my  wife  was  quite  right  when  she  said  that  it  has  been 
hard  to  put  up  with  her.  If  I were  to  tell  you — ” 

The  knight  interrupted  the  fisherman  to  draw  his  attention  to  a 
noise,  as  of  a rushing  flood  of  waters,  which  had  caught  his  ear  dur- 
ing the  old  man’s  talk,  and  which  now  burst  against  the  cottage- win- 
dow with  redoubled  fury.  Both  sprang  to  the  door.  There  they 
saw,  by  the  light  of  the  now  risen  moon,  the  brook  which  issued 
from  the  wood,  wildly  overflowing  its  banks  and  whirling  away 
stones  and  branches  of  trees  in  its  sweeping  course.  The  storm,  as 
if  awakened  by  the  tumult,  burst  forth  from  the  mighty  clouds 
which  passed  rapidly  across  the  moon  ; the  lake  roared  under  the 
furious  lashing  of  the  wind  ; the  trees  of  the  little  peninsula  groaned 
from  root  to  topmost  bough,  and  bent,  as  if  reeling,  over  the  surg- 
ing waters.  “ Undine  ! for  Heaven’s  sake,  Undine  !”  cried  the  two 
men  in  alarm.  No  answer  was  returned,  and  regardless  of  every 
other  consideration  they  ran  out  of  the  cottage,  one  in  this  direction, 
and  the  other  in  that,  searching  and  calling. 


^CHAPTER  III. 

HOW  THEY  FOUND  UNDINE  AGAIN. 

The  longer  Huldbrand  sought  Undine  beneath  the  shades  of 
night,  and  failed  to  find  her,  the  more  anxious  and  confused  did  he 
become.  The  idea  that  Undine  had  been  only  a mere  apparition  of 


UNDINE. 


11 


the  forest  again  gained  ascendency  over  him  ; indeed,  amid  the 
howling  of  the  waves  and  the  tempest,  the  cracking  of  the  trees,  and 
the  complete  transformation  of  a scene  lately  so  calmly  beautiful,  he 
could  almost  have  considered  the  whole  peninsula  with  its  cottage 
and  its  inhabitants  as  a mocking  illusive  vision  ; but  from  afar  he 
still  ever  heard  through  the  tumult  the  fisherman’s  anxious  call  for 
Undine,  and  the  loud  praying  and  singing  of  his  aged  wife.  At 
length  he  came  close  to  the  brink  of  the  swollen  stream,  and  saw  in 
the  moonlight  how  it  had  taken  its  wild  course  directly  in  front  of 
the  haunted  forest,  so  as  to  change  the  peninsula  into  an  island. 
“ Oh,  God  !”  he  thought  to  himself,  “ if  Undine  has  ventured  a step 
ii^o  that  fearful  forest,  perhaps  in  her  charming  wilfulness,  just  be- 
cause I was  not  allowed  to  tell  her  about  it— and  now  the  stream  may 
be  rolling  between  us,  and  she  may  be  weeping  on  the  other  side 
alone,  among  phantoms  and  spectres  !”  A cry  of  horror  escaped 
him,  and  he  clambered  down  some  rocks  and  overthrown  pine-stems 
in  order  to  reach  the  rushing  stream,  and  by  wading  or  swimming  to 
seek  the  fugitive  on  the  other  side.  He  remembered  all  the  awful 
and  wonderful  things  which  he  had  encountered  even  by  day  under 
the  now  rustling  and  roaring  branches  of  the  forest.  Above  all  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  a tall  man  in  white,  whom  he  knew  but  too  well, 
were  grinning  and  nodding  on  the  opposite  shore  ; but  it  was  just  these 
monstrous  forms  which  forcibly  impelled  him  to  cross  the  flood,  as 
the  thought  seized  him  that  Undine  might  be  among  them  in  the 
agonies  of  death  and  alone. 

He  had  already  grasped  the  strong  branch  of  a pine,  and  was 
standing  supported  by  it,  in  the  whirling  current,  against  which  he 
could  with  difficulty  maintain  himself  ; though  with  a courageous 
spirit  he  advanced  deeper  into  it.  Just  then  a gentle  voice  exclaimed 
near  him,  “Venture  not,  venture  not,  the  old  man,  the  stream,  is 
full  of  tricks  !’’  He  knew  the  sweet  tones  ; he  stood  as  if  entranced 
beneath  the  shadows  that  duskily  shrouded  the  moon,  and  his  head 
swam  with  the  swelling  of  the  waves,  which  he  now  saw  rapidly  rising 
to  his  waist.  Still  he  would  not  desist. 

“ If  thou  art  not  really  there,  if  thou  art  only  floating  about  me  like 
a mist,  then  may  I too  cease  to  live  and  become  a shadow  like  thee, 
dear,  dear  Undine  i”  Thus  exclaiming  aloud,  he  again  stepped 
deeper  into  the  stream.  “ Look  round  thee,  oh,  look  round  thee, 
beautiful  but  infatuated  youth  !’’  cried  a voice,  again  close  beside 
him,  and  looking  aside  he  saw,  by  the  momentarily  unveiled  moon, 
a little  island  formed  by  the  flood,  on  which  he  perceived,  under  the 
interweaved  branches  of  the  overhanging  trees,  Undine,  smiling  and 
happy,  nestling  in  the  flowery  grass. 

Oli,  how  much  more  gladly  than  before  did  the  young  man  now 
use  the  aid  of  his  pine-branch  ! 

With  a few  steps  he  had  crossed  the  flood  which  was  rushing  be- 
tween him  and  the  maiden,  and  he  was  standing  beside  her  on  a lit- 


12 


UNDINE. 


tie  spot  of  turf,  safely  guarded  and  screened  by  the  good  old  trees. 
Undine  had  half  raised  herself,  and  now  under  the  green  leafy  tent 
she  threw  her  grins  round  his  neck  and  drew  him  down  beside  her 
on  her  soft  seat. 

“ You  shall  tell  me  your  story  here,  beautiful  friend,”  said  she, 
in  a low  whisper  ; “ the  cross  old  people  cannot  hear  us  here  ; and 
our  roof  of  leaves  is  just  as  good  a shelter  as  their  poor  cottage.  ” 
“It  is  heaven  itself  !”  said  Huldbrand,  embracing  the  beautiful  girl 
and  kissing  her  fervently. 

The  old  fisherman  meanwhile  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  stream,  and 
shouted  across  to  the  two  young  people  ; “ Why,  Sir  Knight,  I have 

received  you  as  one  honest-hearted  man  is  wont  to  receive  another, 
and  now  here  you  are  caressing  my  foster-child  in  secret,  and  letting 
me  run  hither  and  thither  through  the  night  in  anxious  search  of 
her.”  “I  have  only  just  found  her  myself,  old  father,”  returned 
the  knight. 

“ So  much  the  better,”  said  the  fisherman  ; “ but  now  bring  her 
across  to  me  without  delay  upon  firm  ground.” 

Undine,  however,  would  not  hear  of  this  ; she  declared  she  would 
rather  go  with  the  beautiful  stranger  into  the  wild  forest  itself  than 
return  to  the  cottage,  where  no  one  did  as  she  wished,  and  from  which 
the  beautiful  knight  would  himself  depart  sooner  or  later.  Then 
throwing  her  arms  round  Huldbrand,  she  sang  with  indescribable 
grace : 

“ A stream  ran  out  of  the  misty  vale 
Its  fortunes  to  obtain  ; 

In  the  ocean’s  depths  it  found  a home 
And  ne’er  returned  again.” 

The  old  fisherman  wept  bitterly  at  her  song,  but  this  did  not 
seem  to  affect  her  particularly.  She  kissed  and  caressed  her  new 
friend,  wTho  at  last  said  to  her,  “ Undine,  if  the  old  man’s  distress 
does  not  touch  your  heart  it  touches  mine  ; let  us  go  back  to  him.” 
She  opened  her  large  blue  eyes  in  amazement  at  him,  and  spoke  at 
last,  slowly  and  hesitatingly,  “ If  you  think  so — well  ; whatever 
Kou  think  is  right  to  me.  But  the  old  man  yonder  must  first 
promise  me  that  he  will  let  you,  without  objection,  relate  to  me 
ivhat  you  saw  in  the  wood,  and — well,'  other  things  will  settle 
Ihemselves. ” “ Come,  only  come,”  cried  the  fisherman  to  her,  un- 

able to  utter  another  wTord  ; at  the  same  time  he  stretched  out  his 
arms  far  over  the  rushing  stream  toward  her,  and  nodded  his  head  as 
if  to  promise  the  fulfilment  of  her  request,  and  as  he  did  this  his 
white  hair  fell  strangely  over  his  face,  and  reminded  Huldbrand  of 
tne  nodding  white  man  in  the  forest.  Without  allowing  himself, 
however,  to  grow  confused  by  such  an  idea,  the  young  knight  took 
the  beautiful  girl  in  his  arms  and  bore  her  over  the  narrow  passage 
which  the  stream  had  forced  between  her  little  island  and  the 
shore. 


UNDINE. 


13 


The  old  man  fell  upon  Undine’s  neck,  and  could  not  satisfy  the 
exuberance  of  his  joy  ; his  good  wife  also  came  up  and  caressed  the 
newly-found  in  the  heartiest  manner.  Not  a word  of  reproach 
passed  their  lips  ; nor  was  it  thought  of,  for  Undine,  forgetting  all 
her  waywardness,  almost  overwhelmed  her  foster-parents  with  affec- 
tion and  fond  expressions. 

When  at  last  they  had  recovered  from  the  excess  of  their  joy,  day 
had  already  dawned  and  had  shed  its  purple  hue  over  the  lake  ; still- 
ness had  followed  the  storm,  and  the  little  birds  were  singing  merrily 
on  the  wet  branches.  As  Undine  now  insisted  upon  hearing  the 
knight’s  promised  story,  the  aged  couple  smilingly  and  readily  acceded 
to  her  desire.  Breakfast  was  brought  out  under  the  trees  which 
screened  the  cottage  from  the  lake,  and  they  sat  down  to  it  with  con- 
tented hearts — Undine  on  the  grass  at  the  knighUs  feet,  the  place 
chosen  by  herself. 

Huldbrand  then  proceeded  with  his  story. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OP  THAT  WHICH  THE  KNIGHT  ENCOUNTERED  IN  THE  WOOD. 

“ It  is  now  about  eight  days  ago  since  I rode  into  the  free  imperial 
city  which  lies  on  the  other  side  of  the  forest.  Soon  after  my  arri- 
val there  was  a splendid  tournament  and  running  at  the  ring,  and  I 
spared  neither  my  horse  nor  my  lance.  Once  when  I was  pausing  at 
the  lists,  to  rest  after  my  merry  toil,  and  was  handing  back  my  hel- 
met to  one  of  my  squires,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a female 
figure  of  great  beauty,  who  was  standing,  richly  attired;  on  one  of  the 
galleries  allotted  to  spectators. 

“ I asked  my  neighbor,  and  learned  from  him  that  the  name  of  the 
fair  lady  was  Bertalda,  and  that  she  was  the  foster-daughter  of  one 
of  the  powerful  dukes  living  in  the  country.  I remarked  that  she 
also  was  looking  at  me,  and,  as  it  is  wont  to  be  with  us  young 
knights,  I had  already  ridden  bravely,  and  now  pursued  my  course 
with  renovated  confidence  and  courage.  In  the  dance  that  evening 
I was  Bertalda ’s  partner,  and  I remained  so  throughout  the  festi- 
val/’ 

A sharp  pain  in  his  left  hand,  which  hung  down  by  his  side,  here 
interrupted  Huldbrand’s  narrative  and  drew  his  attention  to  the 
aching  part.  Undine  had  fastened  her  pearly  teeth  upon  one  of  his 
fingers,  appearing  at  the  same  time  very  gloom}'  and  angry.  Sud- 
denly, however,  she  looked  up  in  his  eyes  with  an  expression  of  ten- 
der melancholy,  and  whispered  in  a soft  voice,  “It  is  your  own 


14 


UKDIKE. 


fault.”  Then  she  hid  her  face,  and  the  knight,  strangely  confused 
and  thoughtful,  continued  his  narrative. 

“ This  Bertalda  was  a haughty,  wayward  girl.  Even  on  the  second 
day  she  pleased  me  no  longer  as  she  had  done  on  the  first,  and  on  the 
third  day  still  less.  Still  I continued  about  her,  because  she  was 
more  pleasant  to  me  than  to  any  other  knight,  and  thus  it  was  that 
I begged  her  in  jest  to  give  me  one  of  her  gloves.  ‘ I will  give  it  you 
when  you  have  quite  alone  explored  the  ill-famed  forest,  ’ said  she, 
‘ and  can  bring  me  tidings  of  its  wonders.  ’ It  was  not  that  her  glove 
was  of  such  importance  to  me,  but  the  word  had  been  said,  and  an 
honorable  knight  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  urged  a second  time 
to  such  a proof  of  valor.  ’ ’ 

“ I think  she  loved  you/’  said  Undine,  interrupting  him. 

“ It  seemed  so,”  replied  Huldbrand. 

“Well,”  exclaimed  the  girl,  laughing,  “she  must  be  stupid  in- 
deed— to  drive  away  any  one  dear  to  her ; and,  moreover,  into  an 
ill-omened  wood.  The  forest  and  its  mysteries  might  have  waited 
long  enough  for  me  !” 

“ Yesterday  morning,”  continued  the  knight,  smiling  kindly  at 
Undine,  “ I set  out  on  my  enterprise.  The  stems  of  the  trees  caught 
the  red  tints  of  the  morning  light  which  lay  brightly  on  the  green  turf, 
the  leaves  seemed  whispering  merrily  with  each  other,  and  in  my 
heart  I could  have  laughed  at  the  people  who  could  have  expected 
anything  to  terrify  them  in  this  pleasant  spot.  ‘ I shall  soon  have 
trotted  through  the  forest  there  and  back  again,  ’ I said  to  myself, 
with  a feeling  of  easy  gayety,  and  before  I had  even  thought  of  it  I 
was  deep  within  the  green  shades,  and  could  no  longer  perceive  the 
plain  which  lay  behind  me.  Then  for  the  first  time  it  struck  me 
that  I might  easily  lose  my  way  in  the  mighty  forest,  and  that  this 
perhaps  were  the  only  danger  which  the  wanderer  had  to  fear.  I 
therefore  paused  and  looked  round  in  the  direction  of  the  sun,  which 
in  the  mean  while  had  risen  somewhat  higher  above  the  horizon. 
While  I was  thus  looking  up  I saw  something  black  in  the  branches 
of  a lofty  oak.  I thought  it  was  a bear,  and  I grasped  my  sword  ; 
but  with  a human  voice,  that  sounded  harsh  and  ugly,  it  called  to 
me  from  above,  ‘If  I do  not  nibble  away  the  branches  up  here,  Sir 
Malapert,  what  shall  we  have  to  roast  you  with  at  midnight  ? ’ And 
so  saying  it  grinned,  and  made  the  branches  rustle,  so  that  my  horse 
grew  furious  and  rushed  forward  with  me  before  I had  time  to  see 
what  sort  of  a devil  it  really  was.  ’ ’ 

“ You  must  not  call  it  so,”  said  the  old  fisherman,  as  he  crossed 
himself  ; his  wife  did  the  same  silently  ; Undine  looked  at  the 
knight  with  sparkling  eyes  and  said,  “ The  best  of  the  story  is,  that 
they  certainly  have  not  roasted  him  yet ; go  on  now,  you  beautiful 
youth  !” 

The  knight  continued  his  narration  : “ My  horse  was  so  wild  that 
he  almost  rushed  with  me  against  the  stems  and  branches  of  trees  ; 


UNDIKE. 


15 


he  was  dripping  with  sweat,  and  yet  would  not  suffer  himself  to  be 
held  in.  At  last  he  went  straight  in  the  direction  of  a rocky -preci- 
pice ; then  it  suddenly  seemed  to  me  as  if  a tall  white  man  threw 
himself  across  the  path  of  my  wild  steed  ; the  horse  trembled  with 
fear  and  stopped  ; I recovered  my  hold  of  him,  and  for  the  first  time 
perceived  that  my  deliverer  was  no  white  man,  but  a brook  of  silvery 
brightness,  rushing  down  from  a hill  by  my  side  and  crossing  and 
impeding  my  horse’s  course.  ” 

“Thanks,  dear  brook,”  exclaimed  Undine,  clapping  her  little 
hands.  The  old  man,  however,  shook  his  head  and  looked  down  in 
deep  thought. 

“ I had  scarcely  settled  myself  in  the  saddle,”  continued  Huld- 
brand,  “ and  seized  the  reins  firmly,  when  a wonderful  little  man  stood 
at  my  side,  diminutive  and  ugly  beyond  conception.  His  complexion 
was  of  a yellowish  brown,  and  his  nose  not  much  smaller  than  the 
rest  of  his  entire  person.  At  the  same  time  he  kept  grinning  with 
stupid  courtesy,  exhibiting  his  huge  mouth,  and  making  a thousand 
scrapes  and  bows  to  me.  As  this  farce  was  now  becoming  inconven- 
ient to  me,  I thanked  him  briefly,  and  turned  about  my  still  trembling 
steed,  thinking  either  to  seek  another  adventure,  or,  in  case  1 met 
with  none,  to  find  my  way  back,  for  during  my  wild  chase  the  sun 
had  already  passed  the  meridian  ; but  the  little  fellow  sprang  round 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  and  stood  again  before  my  horse. 

‘ Room  ! ’ I cried  angrily  ; ‘ the  animal  is  wild,  and  may  easily  run 
over  you.  ’ ‘Aye,  aye  ! ’ snarled  the  imp,  with  a grin  still  more  horribly 
stupid.  ‘ Give  me  first  some  drink-money,  for  I have  stopped  your 
horse  ; without  me,  you  and  your  horse  would  be  now  both  lying  in 
the  stony  ravine  ; ugh  ! ’ ‘ Don’t  make  anymore  faces,’  said  I,  ‘ and 

take  your  money,  even  if  you  are  telling  lies  ; for  see,  it  was  the 
good  brook  there  that  saved  me,  and  not  you,  you  miserable  wight  ! ’ 
And  at  the  same  time  I dropped  a piece  of  gold  into  his  grotesque 
cap,  which  he  had  taken  off  in  his  begging.  I then  trotted  on  ; but  he 
screamed  after  me,  and  suddenly,  with  inconceivable  quickness,  was 
at  my  side.  I urged  my  horse  into  a gallop  ; the  imp  ran  too,  mak- 
ing at  the  same  time  strange  contortions  with  his  body,  half  ridicu- 
lous, half  horrible,  and  holding  up  the  gold-piece  he  cried,  at  every 
leap,  ‘ False  money  ! false  coin  ! false  coin  ! false  money  ! ’ and  this 
he  uttered  with  such  a hollow  sound  that  one  would  have  supposed 
that  after  every  scream  he  would  have  fallen  dead  to  the  ground. 

“ His  horrid  red  tongue,  moreover,  hung  far  out  of  his  mouth.  I 
stopped,  perplexed,  and  asked,  ‘ What  do  you  mean  by  this  scream- 
ing ? Take  another  piece  of  gold — take  two,  but  leave  me.  ’ He  then 
began  again  his  hideous  burlesque  of  politeness,  and  snarled  out, 

‘ Not  gold,  not  gold,  my  young  gentleman  ; I have  too  much  of  that 
trash  myself,  as  I will  show  you  at  once  ! ’ 

“ Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I could  see  through  the  solid  soil 
as  though  it  were  green  glass  and  the  smooth  earth  were  as  round  as 


16 


UNDINE. 


a ball  ; and  within  a multitude  of  goblins  were  making  sport  with 
silver  and  gold  ; head  over  heels  they  were  rolling  about,  pelting  each 
other  in  jest  with  the  precious  metals,  and  provokingly  blowing  the 
gold-dust  in  each  other’s  eyes.  My  hideous  companion  stood  partly 
within  and  partly  without  ; he  ordered  the  others  to  reach  him  up 
heaps  of  gold,  and,  showing  it  to  me  with  a laugh,  he  then  flung  it 
back  again  with  a ringing  noise  into  the  immeasurable  abyss. 

“ He  then  showed  the  piece  of  gold  I had  given  him  to  the  goblins 
below,  and  they  laughed  themselves  half  dead  over  it  and  hissed  at  me. 
At  last  they  all  pointed  at  me  with  their  metal-stained  fingers,  and  more 
and  more  wildly,  and  more  and  more  densely,  and  more  and  more 
madly  the  swarm  of  spirits  came  clambering  up  to  me  ; I was  seized 
with  terror  as  my  horse  had  been  before  ; I put  spurs  to  him,  and  I 
know  not  how  far  I galloped  for  the  second  time  wildly  into  the  for- 
est. 

“At  length,  when  I again  halted  the  coolness  of  evening  was 
around  me.  Through  the  branches  of  the  trees  I saw  a white  foot- 
path gleaming,  which  I fancied  must  lead  from  the  forest  toward 
the  city.  I was  anxious  to  work  my  way  in  that  direction  ; but  a 
face  perfectly  white  and  indistinct,  with  features  ever  changing,  kept 
peering  at  me  between  the  leaves  ; I tried  to  avoid  it,  but  wherever  I 
went  it  appeared  also.  Enraged  at  this,  I determined  at  last  to  ride 
at  it,  when  it  gushed  forth  volumes  of  foam  upon  me  and  my  horse, 
obliging  us,  half  blinded,  to  make  a rapid  retreat.  Thus  it  drove  us 
step  by  step  evef  away  from  the  foot-path,  leaving  the  way  open  to 
us  only  in  one  direction.  When  we  advanced  in  this  direction  it 
kept  indeed  close  behind  us,  but  did  not  do  us  the  slightest  harm. 

“ Looking  round  at  it  occasionally,  I perceived  that  the  white  face 
that  had  besprinkled  us  with  foam  belonged  to  a form  equally  white 
and  of  gigantic  stature.  Many  a time  I thought  that  it  was  a moving 
stream,  but  I could  never  convince  myself  on  the  subject.  Wearied 
out,  the  horse  and  his  rider  yielded  to  the  impelling  power  of  the  white 
man,  who  kept  nodding  his  head  as  if  he  would  say,  ‘ Quite  right, 
quite  right  ! ’ And  thus  at  last  we  came  out  here  to  the  end  of  the 
forest,  where  I saw  the  turf  and  the  lake  and  your  little  cottage,  and 
where  the  tall  white  man  disappeared.” 

“ It’s  well  that  he’s  gone,”  said  the  old  fisherman  ; and  now  he 
began  to  talk  of  the  best  way  by  which  his  guest  could  return  to  his 
friends  in  the  city.  Upon  this  Undine  began  to  laugh  slyly  to  her- 
self ; Huldbrand  observed  it,  and  said,  “ I thought  you  were  glad  to 
see  me  here  ; why  then  do  you  now  rejoice  when  my  departure  is 
talked  of  ?” 

“Because  you  cannot  go  away,”  replied  Undine.  “Just  try  it 
once,  to  cross  that  overflowed  forest  stream  with  a boat,  with  your 
horse,  or  alone,  as  you  may  fancy.  Or  rather  don’t  try  it,  for  you 
would  be  dashed  to  pieces  by  the  stones  and  trunks  of  trees  which  are 
carried  down  by  it  with  the  speed  of  lightning.  And  as  to  the  lake, 


UNDINE. 


17 


I know  it  well  ; father  dare  not  venture  out  far  enough  with  his 
boat/’  Huldbrand  rose,  smiling,  in  order  to  see  whether  things  were 
as  Undine  had  said  ; the  old  man  accompanied  him,  and  the  girl 
danced  merrily  along  by  their  side.  They  found  everything  indeed 
as  Undine  had  described,  and  the  knight  was  obliged  to  submit  to  re- 
main on  the  little  tongue  of  land  that  had  become  an  island  till  the 
flood  should  subside.  As  the  three  were  returning  to  the  cottage 
after  their  ramble,  the  knight  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  little 
maiden,  “ Well,  how  is  it,  my  pretty  Undine,  are  you  angry  at  my 
remaining?”  “Ah!”  she  replied  peevishly,  “let  me  alone.  If  I 
had  not  bitten  you,  who  knows  how  much  of  Bertalda  would  have 
appeared  in  your  story  ?” 


CHAPTER  Y. 

HOW  THE  KNIGHT  LIVED  ON  THE  LITTLE  PROMONTORY. 

After  having  been  much  driven  to  and  fro  in  the  world,  you  have, 
perhaps,  my  dear  reader,  reached  at  length  some  spot  where  all  was 
well  with  thee  ; where  the  love  for  home  and  its  calm  peace,  innate 
to  all,  has  again  sprung  up  within  thee  ; where  thou  hast  thought  that 
this  home  was  rich  with  all  the  flowers  of  childhood  and  of  the  pur- 
est, deepest  love  that  rests  upon  the  graves  of  those  that  are  gone, 
and  thou  hast  felt  it  must  be  good  to  dwell  here  and  to  build  habita- 
tions. Even  if  thou  hast  erred  in  this,  and  hast  had  afterward  bit- 
terly to  atone  for  the  error,  that  is  nothing  to  the  purpose  now,  and 
thou  wouldst  not  indeed  voluntarily  sadden  thyself  with  the  unpleas- 
ant recollection.  But  recall  that  inexpressibly  sweet  foreboding,  that 
angelic  sense  of  peace,  and  thou  wilt  know  somewhat  of  the  knight 
Huldbrand’s  feelings  during  his  abode  on  the  little  promontory. 

He  often  perceived  with  hearty  satisfaction  that  the  forest  stream 
rolled  along  every  day  more  wildly,  making  its  bed  ever  broader  and 
broader,  and  prolonging  his  sojourn  on  the  island  to  an  indefinite 
period.  Part  of  the  day  he  rambled  about  with  an  old  crossbow, 
which  he  had  found  in  a corner  of  the  cottage  and  had  repaired  ; and 
watching  for  the  water-fowl,  he  killed  all  that  he  could  for  the  cot- 
tage kitchen.  When  he  brought  his  booty  home,  Undine  rarely  neg- 
lected to  upbraid  him  with  having  so  cruelly  deprived  the  happy 
birds  of  life  ; indeed  she  often  wept  bitterly  at  the  sight  he  placed  be- 
fore her.  But  if  he  came  home  another  time  without  having  shot 
anything,  she  scolded  him  no  less  seriously,  since  now,  from  his  care- 
lessness and  want  of  skill,  they  had  to  be  satisfied  with  living  on  fish. 
He  always  delighted  heartily  in  her  graceful  little  scoldings,  all  the 
more  as  she  generally  strove  to  compensate  for  her  ill-humor  by  the 
sweetest  caresses. 


18 


UNDINE. 


Tlie  old  people  took  pleasure  in  the  intimacy  of  the  young  pair  ; 
they  regarded  them  as  betrothed,  or  even  as  already  united  in  mar- 
riage and  living  on  this  isolated  spot,  as  a succor  and  support  to  them 
in  their  old  age.  It  was  this  same  sense  of  seclusion  that  suggested 
the  idea  also  to  Huldbrand’s  mind  that  he  was  already  Undine’s  ac- 
cepted one.  He  felt  as  if  there  were  no  world  beyond  these  sur- 
rounding waters,  or  as  if  he  could  never  recross  them  to  mingle  with 
other  men  ; and  when  at  times  his  grazing  horse  would  neigh  as  if 
inquiringly  to  remind  him  of  knightly  deeds,  or  when  the  coat-of- 
arms  on  his  embroidered  saddle  and  liorse-gear  shone  sternly  upon 
him,  or  when  his  beautiful  sword  would  suddenly  fall  from  the  nail 
on  which  it  was  hanging  in  the  cottage,  gliding  from  the  scabbard  as 
it  fell,  he  would  quiet  the  doubts  of  his  mind  by  saying,  “ Undine  is 
no  fisherman’s  daughter  ; she  belongs  in  all  probability  to  some  illus- 
trious f amity  abroad.  ” There  was  only  one  thing  to  which  he  had  a 
strong  aversion,  and  this  was  when  the  old  dame  reproved  Undine  in 
his  presence.  The  wayward  girl,  it  is  true,  laughed  at  it  for  the  most 
part,  without  attempting  to  conceal  her  mirth  ; but  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  his  honor  were  concerned,  and  yet  he  could  not  blame  the  old 
fisherman’s  wife,  for  Undine  always  deserved  at  least  ten  times  as 
many  reproofs  as  she  received  ; so  in  his  heart  he  felt  the  balance  in 
favor  of  the  old  woman,  and  his  whole  life  flowed  onward  in  calm 
enjoyment. 

There  came,  however,  an  interruption  at  last.  The  fisherman  and 
the  knight  had  been  accustomed  at  their  midday  meal,  and  also  in 
the  evening  when  the  wind  roared  without,  as  it  was  always  wont  to 
do  toward  night,  to  enjoy  together  a flask  of  wine.  But  now  the 
store  which  the  fisherman  had  from  time  to  time  brought  with  him 
from  the  town  was  exhausted,  and  the  two  men  were  quite  out  of 
humor  in  consequence. 

Undine  laughed  at  them  excessively  all  day,  but  they  were  neither 
of  them  merry  enough  to  join  in  her  jests  as  usual.  Toward  even- 
ing she  went  out  of  the  cottage  to  avoid,  as  she  said,  two  such  long 
and  tiresome  faces.  As  twilight  advanced  there  were  again  tokens  of 
a storm,  and  the  water  rushed  and  roared.  Full  of  alarm,  the  knight 
and  the  fisherman  sprang  to  the  door  to  bring  home  the  girl,  remember- 
ing the  anxiety  of  that  night  when  Huldbrand  had  first  come  to  the 
cottage.  Undine,  however,  met  them  clapping  her  little  hands  with 
delight.  “ What  will  you ’give  me,”  she  said,  “ to  provide  you  with 
wine?  or  rather,  you  need  not  give  me  anything,”  she  continued, 
“ for  I am  satisfied  if  you  will  look  merrier  and  be  in  better  spirits 
than  you  have  been  throughout  this  whole  wearisome  day.  Only 
come  with  me  ; the  forest  stream  has  driven  ashore  a cask,  and  I will 
be  condemned  to  sleep  through  a whole  week  if  it  is  not  a wine- 
cask.”  The  men  followed  her,  and  in  a sheltered  creek  on  the  shore 
they  actually  found  a cask,  which  inspired  them  with  the  hope  that  it 
contained  the  generous  drink  for  which  they  were  thirsting. 


UPDIKE. 


19 


They  at  once  rolled  it  as  quickly  as  possible  toward  the  cottage, 
for  the  western  sky  was  overcast  with  heavy  st  )rm-clouds,  and  they 
could  observe  in  the  twilight  the  waves  of  the  lake  raising  their 
white,  foaming  heads,  as  if  looking  out  for  the  rain  which  was  pres- 
ently to  pour  down  upon  them.  Undine  helped  the  men  as  much  as 
she  was  able,  and  when  the  storm  of  rain  suddenly  burst  over  them, 
she  said,  with  a merry  threat  to  the  heavy  clouds,  “ Come,  come, 
take  care  that  you  don’t  wet  us  ; we  are  still  some  way  from  shelter.” 
The  old  man  reproved  her  for  this  as  simply  presumption,  but  she 
laughed  softly  to  herself,  and  no  mischief  befell  any  one  in  conse- 
quence of  her  levit}r.  Nay,  more  ; contrary  to  all  expectation,  they 
reached  tbe  comfortable  hearth  with  their  booty  perfectly  dry,  and  it 
was  not  till  they  had  opened  the  cask  and  had  proved  that  it  con- 
tained some  wonderfully  excellent  wine  that  the  rain  burst  forth 
from  the  dark  cloud,  and  the  storm  raged  among  the  tops  of  the  trees 
and  over  the  agitated  billows  of  the  lake. 

Several  bottles  were  soon  filled  from  the  great  cask,  which  promised 
a supply  for  many  days,  and  they  were  sitting  drinking  and  jesting 
round  the  glowing  fire,  feeling  comfortably  secured  from  the  raging 
storm  without.  Suddenly  the  old  fisherman  became  very  grave,  and 
said,  “ Ah,  great  God  ! here  are  we  rejoicing  over  this  rich  treasure, 
and  he  to  whom  it  once  belonged,  and  of  whom  the  floods  have  robbed 
it,  has  probably  lost  his  precious  life  in  their  waters.”  “ That  he 
has  not,”  declared  Undine,  and  she  smilingly  filled  the  knight’s  cup 
to  the  brim.  But  Huld  brand  replied,  “ By  my  honor,  old  father,  if 
I knew  where  to  find  and  to  rescue  him,  no  knightly  errand  and  no 
danger  would  I shirk  So  much,  however,  I can  promise  you,  that  if 
ever  again  I reach  more  inhabited  lands  I will  find  out  the  owner  of 
this  wine  or  his  heirs,  and  requite  it  twofold — nay,  threefold.”  This 
delighted  the  old  man  ; he  nodded  approvingly  to  the  knight,  and 
drained  his  cup  with  a better  conscience  and  greater  pleasure  Un- 
dine, however,  said  to  Huldbrand,  “ Do  as  you  will  with  your  gold 
and  your  reimbursement  ; but  you  spoke  foolishly  about  the  ventur- 
ing out  in  search  ; I should  cry  my  eyes  out  if  you  were  lost  in  the 
attempt ; and  isn’t  it  true  that  you  would  yourself  rather  stay  with 
me  and  the  good  wine  ?”  “Yes,  indeed,”  answered  Huldbrand,  smil- 
ing. “ Then,”  said  Undine,  “ you  spoke  unwisely.  For  charity  be- 
gins at  home,  and  what  do  other  people  concern  us?”  The  old 
woman  turned  away,  sighing  and  shaking  her  head  ; the  fisherman 
forgot  his  wonted  affection  for  the  pretty  girl,  and  scolded  her. 
“It  sounds  exactly,”  said  he,  as  he  finished  his  reproof,  “as  if 
Turks  and  heathens  had  brought  you  up  ; may  God  forgive  both 
me  and  you,  you  spoiled  child.”  “ Well,”  replied  Undine,  “ for  all 
that,  it  is  what  I feel,  let  who  will  have  brought  me  up,  and  all 
your  words  can’t  help  that.”  “ Silence  !”  exclaimed  the  fisherman, 
and  Undine,  who,  in  spite  of  her  pertness,  was  exceedingly  fearful, 
shrank  from  him,  and,  moving  tremblingly  toward  Huldbrand, 


20 


UNDINE. 


asked  him  in  a soft  tone,  “ Are  you  also  angry,  dear  friend  ?”  The 
knight  pressed  her  tender  hand  and  stroked  her  hair.  He  could 
say  nothing,  for  vexation  at  the  old  man’s  severity  toward  Undine 
closed  his  lips  ; and  thus  the  two  couple  sat  opposite  to  each  othei, 
with  angry  feelings  and  embarrassed  silence. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

OF  A NUPTIAL  CEREMONY. 

A low  knocking  at  the  door  was  heard  in  the  midst  of  this  still- 
ness, startling  all  the  inmates  of  the  cottage  ; for  there  are  timea 
when  a little  circumstance,  happening  quite  unexpectedly,  can  un- 
duly alarm  us.  But  there  was  here  the  additional  cause  of  alarm 
that  the  enchanted  forest  lay  so  near,  and  that  the  little  promontory 
seemed  just  now  inaccessible  to  human  beings.  They  looked  at 
each  other  doubtingly,  as  the  knocking  was  repeated,  accompanied  by 
a deep  groan,  and  the  knight  sprang  to  reach  his  sword.  But  the 
old  man  whispered  softly,  “If  it  be  what  I fear,  no  weapon  will 
help  us.”  Undine  meanwhile  approached  the  door  and  called  out 
angrily  and  boldly,  “ Spirits  of  the  earth,  if  you  wish  to  carry  on 
your  mischief,  Kiihleborn  shall  teach  you  something  better.”  The 
terror  of  the  rest  was  increased  by  these  mysterious  words  ; they 
looked  fearfully  at  the  girl,  and  Huldbrand  wTas  just  regaining  courage 
enough  to  ask  what  she  meant,  when  a voice  said  without,  “ I am  no 
spirit  of  the  earth,  but  a spirit  indeed  still  within  its  earthly  body. 
You  within  the  cottage,  if  you  fear  God  and  will  help  me,  open  to 
me.”  At  these  words  Undine  had  already  opened  the  door,  and  had 
held  a lamp  out  in  the  stormy  night,  by  which  they  perceived  an 
aged  priest  standing  there,  who  stepped  back  in  terror  at  the  unex- 
pected sight  of  the  beautiful  maiden.  He  might  well  think  that 
witchcraft  and  magic  were  at  work  when  such  a lovely  form  ap- 
peared at  such  an  humble  cottage  door  ; he  therefore  began  to  pray, 
“ All  good  spirits  praise  the  Lord  !”  “ I am  no  spectre,”  said  Undine, 
smiling  ; “ do  I then  look  so  ugly  ? Besides,  you  may  see  the  holy 
words  do  not  frighten  me.  I too  know  of  God,  and  understand  how 
to  praise  him  ; every  one,  to  be  sure,  in  his  own  way,  for  so  lie  has 
created  us.  Come  in,  venerable  father  ; you  come  among  good 
people.” 

The  holy  man  entered,  bowing  and  looking  round  him  with  a pro- 
found yet  tender  demeanor.  But  the  water  was  dropping  from 
every  fold  of  his  dark  garment,  and  from  his  long  white  beard  and 
from  his  gray  locks.  The  fisherman  and  the  knight  took  him  to  an- 
other apartment  and  furnished  him  with  other  clothes,  while  they 


UNDINE. 


21 


gave  the  women  his  own  wet  attire  to  dry.  The  aged  stranger 
thanked  them  humbly  and  courteously,  but  he  would  on  no  account 
accept  the  knight’s  splendid  mantle  which  was  offered  to  him  ; but 
he  chose  instead  an  old  gray  overcoat  belonging  to  the  fisherman. 
They  then  returned  to  the  apartment,  and  the  good  old  dame  imme- 
diately vacated  her  easy-chair  for  the  reverend  father,  and  would  not 
rest  till  he  had  taken  possession  of  it,  “For,”  said  she,  “ you  are 
old  and  exhausted,  and  you  are,  moreover,  a man  of  God.”  Undine 
pushed  under  the  stranger’s  feet  her  little  stool,  on  which  she  had 
been  wont  to  sit  by  the  side  of  Huldbrand,  and  she  showed  herself 
in  every  way  most  gentle  and  kind  in  her  care  of  the  good  old  man. 
Huldbrand  whispered  some  raillery  at  it  in  her  ear,  but  she  replied 
very  seriously,  “He  is  a servant  of  him  who  created  us  all  ; holy 
things  are  not  to  be  jested  with.”  The  knight  and  the  fisherman 
then  refreshed  their  reverend  guest  with  food  and  wine,  and  when 
he  had  somewhat  recovered  himself  lie  began  to  relate  how  he  had 
the  day  before  set  out  from  his  cloister,  which  lay  far  beyond  the 
great  lake,  intending  to  travel  to  the  Bishop,  in  order  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  distress  into  which  the  monastery  and  its  tributary  vil- 
lages had  fallen  on  account  of  the  extraordinary  floods. 

"After  a long  circuitous  route,  which  these  very  floods  had  obliged 
him  to  take,  he  had  been  this  day  compelled,  toward  evening,  to 
procure  the  aid  of  a couple  of  good  boatmen  to  cross  an  arm  of  the 
lake,  which  had  overflowed  its  banks.  “ Scarcely,  however,”  con- 
tinued be,  “had  our  small  craft  touched  the  waves  than  that  furi- 
ous tempest  burst  forth  which  is  now  raging  over  our  heads. 

“ It  seemed  as  if  the  waters  had  only  waited  for  us  to  commence 
their  wildest  whirling  dance  with  our  little  boat.  The  oars  were 
soon  torn  out  of  the  hands  of  my  men  and  were  dashed  by  the 
force  of  the  waves  farther  and  farther  beyond  our  reach.  We  our- 
selves, yielding  to  the  resistless  powers  of  nature,  helplessly  drifted 
over  the  surging  billows  of  the  lake  toward  your  distant  shore, 
which  we  already  saw  looming  through  the  mist  and  foam.  Pres- 
ently our  boat  turned  round  and  round  as  in  a giddy  whirl- 
pool ; I know  not  whether  it  was  upset  or  whether  I fell  overboard. 
In  a vague  terror  of  inevitable  death  I drifted  on,  till  a wave  cast  me 
here  under  the  trees  on  your  island.” 

“Yes,  island  !”  cried  the  fisherman  ; “ a short  time  ago  it  was 
only  a point  of  land,  but  now,  since  the  forest-stream  and  the  lake 
have  become  well-nigh  bewitched,  things  are  quite  different  with  us.  ’ ’ 
“ I remarked  something  of  the  sort,”  said  the  priest,  “ as  I crept 
along  the  shore  in  the  dark  ; and  hearing  nothing  but  the  uproar 
around  me,  I at  last  perceived  that  a beaten  foot-path  disappeared 
just  in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound  proceeded.  I now  saw 
the  light  in  your  cottage,  and  ventured  hither,  and  I cannot  suffi- 
ciently thank  my  Heavenly  Father  that  after  preserving  me  from  the 
waters  he  has  led  me  to  such  good  and  pious  people  as  you  are  ; and 


22 


UNDIKE. 


I feel  this  all  the  more  as  I do  not  know  whether  I shall  ever  behold 
any  other  beings  in  this  world  except  those  I now  address.’ ’ 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?”  asked  the  fisherman. 

“ Do  you  know  then  how  long  this  commotion  of  the  elements  is 
to  last?”  replied  the  holy  man.  “ And  I am  old  in  years.  Easily 
enough  may  the  stream  of  my  life  run  itself  out  before  the  overflow- 
ing of  the  forest-stream  may  subside.  And  indeed  it  were  not  im- 
possible that  more  and  more  of  the  foaming  waters  may  force  their 
way  between  you  and  yonder  forest,  until  you  are  so  far  sundered 
from  the  rest  of  the  world  that  your  little  fishing-boat  will  no  longer 
be  sufficient  to  carry  you  across,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  continent 
in  the  midst  of  their  diversions  will  have  entirely  forgotten  you  in 
your  old  age.  ’ ’ » 

The  fisherman’s  wife  started  at  this,  crossed  herself,  and  ex- 
claimed, “ God  forbid  !”  But  her  husband  looked  at  her  with  a 
smile  and  said,  “ What  creatures  we  are  after  all ! Even  were  it  so, 
things  would  not  be  very  different— at  least  not  for  you,  dear  wife — 
than  they  now  are.  For  have  you  for  many  years  been  farther  than 
the  edge  of  the  forest  ? and  have  you  seen  any  other  human  beings 
than  Undine  and  myself  ? The  knight  and  this  holy  man  have  only 
come  to  us  lately.  They  will  remain  with  us  if  we  do  become  a for- 
gotten island  ; so  you  would  even  be  a gainer  by  it  after  all.” 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  the  old  woman,  “ it  is  somehow  a gloomy 
thought,  when  one  imagines  that  one  is  irrecoverably  separated  from 
other  people,  although,  were  it  otherwise,  one  might  neither  know 
nor  see  them.” 

“ Then  you  will  remain  with  us  ! then  you  will  remain  with  us  !” 
whispered  Undine  in  a low,  half-singing  tone,  as  she  nestled  closer  to 
Huldbrand’s  side.  But  he  was  absorbed  in  the  deep  and  strange  vis- 
ions of  his  own  mind. 

The  region  on  the  other  side  of  the  forest-river  seemed  to  dissolve 
into  distance  during  the  priest’s  last  words,  and  the  blooming  island 
upon  which  he  lived  grew  more  green  and  smiled  more  freshly  in  his 
mind’s  vision.  His  beloved  one  glowed  as  the  fairest  rose  of  this  lit- 
tle spot  of  earth,  and  even  of  the  whole  world,  and  the  priest  was  ac- 
tually there.  Added  to  this,  at  that  moment  au  angry  glance  from 
the  old  dame  was  directed  at  the  beautiful  girl  because  even  in  the 
presence  of  the  reverend  father  she  leaned  so  closely  on  the  knight, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  a torrent  of  reproving  words  were  on  the  point  of 
following.  Presently,  turning  to  the  priest,  Huldbrand  burst  forth, 
“ Venerable  father,  you  see  before  you  here  a pair  pledged  to  each 
other  ; and  if  this  maiden  and  these  good  old  people  have  no  objec- 
tion, you  shall  unite  us  this  very  evening.”  The  aged  couple  were 
extremely  surprised.  They  had,  it  is  true,  hitherto  often  thought  of 
something  of  the  sort,  but  they  had  never  yet  expressed  it,  and  when 
ihe  knight  now  spoke  thus  it  came  upon  them  as  something  wholly 
at  wand  unprecedented. 


UNDIKE. 


23 


Undine  had  become  suddenly  grave,  and  looked  down  thought- 
fully while  the  priest  inquired  respecting  the  circumstances  of  the 
case,  and  asked  if  the  old  people  gave  their  consent.  After  much 
discussion  together,  the  matter  was  settled  ; the  old  dame  went  to 
arrange  the  bridal  chamber  for  the  young  people,  and  to  look  out 
two  consecrated  tapers  which  she  had  had  in  her  possession  for 
some  time,  and  which  she  thought  essential  to  the  nuptial  ceremony. 
The  knight  in  the  mean  while  examined  his  gold  chain,  from  which 
he  wished  to  disengage  two  rings,  that  he  might  make  an  ex- 
change of  them  with  his  bride. 

She,  however,  observing  what  he  was  doing,  started  up  from  her^ 
reverie  and  exclaimed,  “ Not  so  ! my  parents  have  not  sent  me  into* 
the  world  quite  destitute  ; on  the  contrary,  they  must  have  antici- 
pated with  certainty  that  such  an  evening  as  this  would  come.” 
Thus  saying,  she  quickly  left  the  room  and  reappeared  in  a moment 
with  two  costly  rings,  one  of  which  she  gave  to  her  bridegroom  and 
kept  the  other  for  herself.  The  old  li sherman  was  extremely  aston- 
ished at  this,  and  still  more  so  his  wife,  who  just  then  entered,  for 
neither  had  ever  seen  these  jewels  in  the  child’s  possession. 

“My  parents,”  said  Undine,  “sewed  these  little  things  into  the 
beautiful  frock  which  I had  on  when  I came  to  you.  They  forbid 
me,  moreover,  to  mention  them  to  any  one  before  my  wedding  even 
ing,  so  1 secretly  took  them  and  kept  them  concealed  until  now.” 
The  priest  interrupted  all  further  questionings  by  lighting  the  conse- 
crated tapers,  which  he  placed  upon  a table,  and  summoned  the 
bridal  pair  to  stand  opposite  to  him.  He  then  gave  them  to  each 
other  with  a few  short,  solemn  words  ; the  elder  couple  gave  their 
blessing  to  the  younger,  and  the  bride,  trembling  and  thoughtful, 
leaned  upon  the  knight.  Then  the  priest  suddenly  said,  “You  are 
strange  people  after  all ! Why  did  you  tell  me  you  were  the  only 
people  here  on  the  island  ? and  during  the  whole  ceremony  a tall, 
stately  man  in  a white  mantle  has  been  looking  at  me  through  the 
window  opposite.  He  must  still  be  standing  before  the  door,  to  see  if 
you  will  invite  him  to  come  into  the  house.”  “ God  forbid,”  said 
the  old  dame,  with  a start ; the  fisherman  shook  his  head  in  silence, 
and  Huldbrand  sprang  to  the  wiudow.  It  seemed  even  to  him  as  if 
he  could  still  see  a white  streak,  but  it  soon  completely  disappeared 
in  the  darkness.  He  convinced  the  priest  that  he  must  have  been  ab- 
solutely mistaken,  and  they  all  sat  down  together  round  the  hearth. 


24 


UNDINE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHAT  FURTHER  HAPPENED  ON  THE  EVENING  OF  THE  WEDDING 

Both  before  and  during  the  ceremony  Undine  had  shown  herself 
gentle  and  quiet  ; but  it  now  seemed  as  if  all  the  wayward  humors 
which  rioted  within  her  burst  forth  all  the  more  boldly  and  unre- 
strainedly. She  teased  her  bridegroom  and  her  foster-parents,  and 
even  the  holy  man  whom  she  had  so  lately  reverenced,  with  all  sorts 
of  childish  tricks  ; and  when  the  old  woman  was  about  to  reprove 
her  she  was  quickly  silenced  by  a few  grave  words  from  the  knight, 
speaking  of  Undine  now  as  his  wife.  Nevertheless  the  knight  him- 
self Was  equally  little  pleased  with  Undine’s  childish  behavior  ; but 
no  signs  and  no  reproachful  words  were  of  any  avail.  It  is  true, 
whenever  the  bride  noticed  her  husband’s  dissatisfaction — and  this 
occurred  occasionally — she  became  more  quiet,  sat  down  by  his  side, 
caressed  him,  whispered  something  smilingly  into  his  ear,  and 
smoothed  the  wrinkles  that  were  gathering  on  his  brow.  But  imme- 
diately afterward  some  wild  freak  would  again  lead  her  to  leturn  to 
her  ridiculous  proceedings,  and  matters  would  be  worse  than  before. 
At  length  the  priest  said,  in  a serious  and  kind  tone,  “ My  fair  young 
maiden,  no  one  indeed  can  look  at  you  without  delight ; but  remem- 
ber so  to  attune  your  soul  betimes  that  it  may  ever  harmonize  with 
that  of  your  wedded  husband.”  “Soul!”  said  Undine  laughing, 

“ that  sounds  pretty  enough,  and  may  be  a very  edifying  and  useful 
caution  for  most  people.  But  when  one  hasn’t  a soul  at  all,  I beg 
you  what  is  there  to  attune  then  ? and  that  is  my  case.”  The  priest 
was  silent  and  deeply  wounded,  and  with  holy  displeasure  he  turned 
his  face  from  the  girl.  She,  however,  went  up  to  him  caressingly  and 
said,  “ No  ! listen  to  me  first  before  you  look  angry,  for  your  look  of 
anger  gives  me  pain,  and  you  must  not  give  pain  to  any  creature  who 
has  done  you  no  wrong — only  have  patience  with  me,  and  I will  tell 
you  properly  what  I mean.” 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  preparing  herself  to  explain  something  - 
in  detail,  but  suddenly  she  hesitated,  as  if  seized  with  an  inward 
shuddering,  and  burst  out  into  a flood  of  tears.  They  none  of  them 
knew  what  to  make  of  this  ebullition,  and,  filled  with  various  appre- 
hensions, they  gazed  at  her  in  silence.  At  length,  wiping  away  her 
tears  and  looking  earnestly  at  the  reverend  man,  she  said,  “There 
must  be  something  beautiful,  but  at  the  same  time  extremely  awful, 
about  a soul.  Tell  me,  holy  sir,  were  it  not  better  that  we  never 
shared  such  a gift?”  She  was  silent  again,  as  if  waiting  for  an 
answer,  and  her  tears  had  ceased  to  flow.  All  in  the  cottage  had  risen 
from  their  seats  and  had  stepped  back  from  her  with  horror.  She, 
however,  seemed  to  have  eyes  for  no  one  but  the  holy  man  ; her  feat- 


UNDINE. 


25 


ures  wore  an  expression  of  fearful  curiosity,  which  appeared  terrible 
to  those  who  saw  her.  “ The  soul  must  be  a heavy  burden.”  she 
continued,  as  no  one  answered  her;  “ very  heavy  ! for  even  its  ap- 
proaching image  overshadows  me  with  anxiety  and  sadness.  And 
ah  ! I was  so  light-hearted  and  so  merry  till  now  !”  And  she  burst 
into  a fresh  flood  of  tears,  and  covered  her  face  with  the  drapery  she 
wore.  Then  the  priest  went  up  to  her  with  a solemn  air,  and  spoke 
to  her,  and  conjured  her  by  the  name  of  the  Most  Holy  to  cast  aside 
the  veil  that  enveloped  her,  if  any  spirit  of  evil  possessed  her.  But 
she  sank  on  her  knees  before  him,  repeating  all  the  sacred  words  he 
uttered,  praising  God,  and  protesting  that  she  wished  well  with  the 
whole  world.  Then  at  last  the  priest  said  to  the  knight,  “ Sir  bride- 
groom, I will  leave  you  alone  with  her  whom  I have  united  to  you  in 
marriage.  So  far  as  I can  discover,  there  is  nothing  of  evil  in  her,  but 
much  indeed  that  is  mysterious.  I commend  to  you  prudence,  love, 
and  fidelity.  ’ ’ So  saying,  he  went  out,  and  the  fisherman  and  his 
wife  followed  him,  crossing  themselves. 

Undine  had  sunk  on  her  knees  ; she  unveiled  her  face  and  said, 
looking  timidly  round  on  Huldbrand,  “Alas!  you  will  surely  now 
not  keep  me  as  your  own  ; and  yet  I have  done  no  evil,  poor  child 
that  I am  !”  As  she  said  this  she  looked  so  exquisitely  graceful  and 
touching  that  her  bridegroom  forgot  all  the  horror  he  had  felt  and 
all  the  mystery  that  clung  to  her,  and  hastening  to  her  he  raised  her 
in  his  arms.  She  smiled  through  her  tears  ; it  was  a smile  like  the 
morning  light  playing  on  a little  stream.  “ You  cannot  leave  me,” 
she  whispered  with  confident  security,  stroking  the  knight’s  cheek 
with  her  tender  hand.  Huldbrand  tried  to  dism  the  fearful 
thoughts  that  still  lurked  in  the  background  of  his  min  15  persuading 
him  that  he  was  married  to  a fairy  or  to  some  malicious  and  mis- 
chievous being  of  the  spirit  world,  only  the  single  question  half  un- 
awares escaped  his  lips,  “ My  little  Undine,  tell  me  this  one  thing  : 
what  was  it  you  said  of  spirits  of  the  earth  and  of  Kuhleborn,  when 
the  priest  knocked  at  the  door  ?”  “It  was  nothing  but  fairy  tales— 
children’s  fairy  tales  !”  said  Undine,  with  all  her  wonted  gayety  ; “ I 
frightened  you  at  first  with  them,  and  then  you  frightened  me  ; that’s 
the  end  of  our  story  and  of  our  nuptial  evening.”  “ Nay  ! that  it 
isn’t,”  said  the  knight,  intoxicated  with  love  ; and  extinguishing  the 
tapers,  he  bore  his  beautiful  beloved  to  the  bridal  chamber  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  which  shone  brightly  through  the  windows. 


26 


UKDIHE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  DAY  AFTER  THE  WEDDING. 

The  fresh  light  of  the  morning  awoke  the  young  married  pair. 
Wonderful  and  horrible  dreams  had  disturbed  Huldbrand’s  rest ; he 
had  been  haunted  by  spectres,  who,  grinning  at  him  by  stealth,  had 
tried  to  disguise  themselves  as  beautiful  women,  and  from  beautiful 
women  they  all  at  once  assumed  the  faces  of  dragons,  and  when  he 
started  up  from  these  hideous  visions  the  moonlight  shone  pale  and 
cold  into  the  room  ; terrified,  he  looked  at  Undine,  who  still  lay  in 
unaltered  beauty  and  grace.  Then  he  would  press  a light  kiss  upon 
her  rosy  lips,  and  would  fall  asleep  again  only  to  be  awakened  by 
new  terrors.  After  he  had  reflected  on  all  this,  now  that  he  was  fully 
awake,  he  reproached  himself  for  any  doubt  that  could  have  led  him 
into  error  with  regard  to  his  beautiful  wife.  He  begged  her  to  forgive 
him  for  the  injustice  he  had  done  her.  but  she  only  held  out  to  him 
her  fair  hand,  sighed  deeply,  and  remained  silent.  But  a glance  of 
exquisite  fervor  beamed  from  her  eyes,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, carrying  with  it  the  full  assurance  that  Undine  bore  him  no  ill- 
will.  He  then  rose  cheerfully  and  left  her,  to  join  his  friends  in  the 
common  apartment. 

He  found  the  three  sitting  round  the  hearth,  with  an  air  of  anxiety 
about  them  as  if  they  dared  not  venture  to  speak  aloud.  The  priest 
seemed  to  be  praying  in  his  inmost  spirit  that  all  evil  might  be 
averted.  When,  however,  they  saw  the  }roung  husband  come  forth 
so  cheerfully,  the  careworn  expression  of  their  faces  vanished. 

The  old  fisherman  even  began  to  jest  with  the  knight  so  pleasantly 
that  the  aged  wife  smiled  good-humoredly  as  she  listened  to  them. 
Undine  at  length  made  her  appearance.  All  rose  to  meet  her,  and  all 
stood  still  with  surprise,  for  the  young  wife  seemed  so  strange  to 
them  and  yet  the  same.  The  priest  was  the  first  to  advance  toward 
her,  with  paternal  affection  beaming  in  his  face,  and  as  he  raised  his 
hand  to  bless  her  the  beautiful  woman  sank  reverently  on  her  knees 
before  him.  With  a few  humble  and  gracious  words,  she  begged 
him  to  forgive  her  for  any  foolish  things  she  might  have  said  the 
evening  before,  and  entreated  him  in  an  agitated  tone  to  pray  for 
the  welfare  of  her  soul.  She  then  rose,  kissed  her  foster-parents, 
and  thanking  them  for  all  the  goodness  they  had  shown  her,  she  ex- 
claimed, “ Oh,  I now  feel  in  my  innermost  heart  how  much,  how 
infinitely  much,  you  have  done  for  me,  dear  kind  people  !”  She 
could  not  at  first  desist  from  her  caresses,  but  scarcely  had  she  per- 
ceived that  the  old  woman  was  busy  in  preparing  breakfast  than  she 
went  to  the  hearth,  cooked  and  arranged  the  meal,  and  would  not 
suffer  the  good  old  mother  to  take  the  least  trouble. 


UNDINE. 


27 


She  continued  thus  throughout  the  whole  day— quiet,  kind,  and  at- 
tentive— at  once  a little  matron  and  a tender,  bashful  girl.  The  three 
who  had  known  her  longest  expected  every  moment  to  see  some 
whimsical  vagary  of  her  capricious  spirit  burst  forth.  But  they 
waited  in  vain  for  it.  Undine  remained  as  mild  and  gentle  as  an 
angel.  The  holy  father  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  her,  and  he 
said  repeatedly  to  the  bridegroom,  “The  goodness  of  Heaven,  sir, 
has  intrusted  a treasure  to  you  yesterday  through  me,  unworthy  as  I 
am  ; cherish  it  as  you  ought,  and  it  will  promote  your  temporal  and 
eternal  welfare.  ” 

Toward  evening  Undine  was  hanging  on  the  knight’s  arm  with 
humble  tenderness,  and  drew  him  gently  out  of  the  door,  where  the 
declining  sun  was  shining  pleasantly  on  the  fresh  grass  and  upon  the 
tall,  slender  stems  of  the  trees.  The  eyes  of  the  young  wife  were 
moist,  as  with  the  dew  of  sadness  and  love,  and  a tender  and  fearful  se- 
cret seemed  hovering  on  her  lips,  which,  however,  was  only  disclosed 
by  scarcely  audible  sighs.  She  led  her  husband  onward  and  onward 
in  silence;  when  he  "spoke  she  only  answered  him  with  looks,  in 
which,  it  is  true,  there  lay  no  direct  reply  to  his  inquiries,  but  a 
whole  heaven  of  love  and  timid  devotion.  Thus  they  reached  the 
edge  of  the  swollen  forest -stream,  and  the  knight  was  astonished  to 
see  it  rippling  along  in  gentle  waves:  without  a trace  of  its  former 
wildness  and  swell.  “ By  the  morning  it  wTill  be  quite  dry,”  said  the 
beautiful  wife  in  a regretful  tone,  “ and  you  can  then  travel  away 
wherever  you  will,  without  anything  to  hinder  you.”  “ Not  with- 
out you,  my  little  Undine,”  replied  the  knight,  laughing ; “remem- 
ber, even  if  I wished  to  desert  you,  the  church  and  the  spiritual 
powers  and  the  emperor  and  the  empire  would  interpose  and  bring 
the  fugitive  back  again.”  “ All  depends  upon  you  ; all  depends  upon 
you,”  whispered  his  wife,  half  weeping  and  half  smiling.  “ I think, 
however,  nevertheless,  that  you  will  keep  me  with  you  ; I love  you 
so  heartily.  Now  carry  me  across  to  that  little  island  that  lies  before 
us.  The  matter  shall  be  decided  there.  I could  easily  indeed  glide 
through  the  rippling  waves,  but  it  is  so  restful  in  your  arms,  and  if 
you  were  to  cast  me  off,  I shall  have  sweetly  rested  in  them  once 
more  for  the  last  time.”  Huldbrand,  full  as  he  was  of  strange  fear 
and  emotion,  knew  not  what  to  reply.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
carried  her  apross,  remembering  now  for  the  first  time  that  this  was 
the  same  little  island  from  which  he  had  borne  her  back  to  the  old 
fisherman  on  that  first  night.  On  the  farther  side,  he  put  her  down 
on  the  soft  grass,  and  was  on  the  point  of  placing  himself  lovingly 
near  his  beautiful  burden,  when  she  said,  “ No,  there,  opposite  to  me  \ 
I will  read  my  sentence  in  your  eyes  before  your  lips  speak  ; now 
listen  attentively  to  what  I will  relate  to  you.”  And  she  began  : 

“You  must  know,  my  loved  one,  that  there  are  beings  in  the  ele- 
ments which  almost  appear  like  mortals,  and  which  rarely  allow 
themselves  to  become  visible  to  your  race.  Wonderful  salamanders 


28 


UNDINE. 


glitter  and  sport  in  the  flames  ; lean  and  malicious  gnomes  dwell  deep 
within  the  earth  ; spirits  belonging  to  the  air  wander  through  the 
forests  ; and  a vast  family  of  water  spirits  live  in  the  lakes  and 
streams  and  brooks.  In  resounding  domes  of  crystal,  through  which 
the  sky  looks  in  with  its  sun  and  stars,  these  latter  spirits  find  their 
beautiful  abode  ; lofty  trees  of  coral  with  blue  and  crimson  fruits 
gleam  in  their  gardens  ; they  wander  over  the  pure  sand  of  the  sea,  and 
among  lovely  variegated  shells,  and  amid  all  exquisite  treasures  of  th*e 
old  world,  which  the  present  is  no  longer  worthy  to  enjoy  ; all  these 
the  floods  have  covered  with  their  secret  veils  of  silver,  and  the  noble 
monuments  sparkle  below,  stately  and  solemn,  and  bedewed  by  the 
loving  waters  which  allure  from  them  many  a beautiful  moss-flower 
and  entwining  cluster  of  sea-grass.  Those,  however,  who  dwell 
there  are  very  fair  and  lovely  to  behold,  and  for  the  most  part  are 
more  beautiful  than  human  beings.  Many  a fisherman  has  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  surprise  some  tender  mermaid  as  she  rose  above  the 
waters  and  sang.  He  would  then  tell  afar  of  her  beauty,  and  such 
wonderful  beings  have  been  given  the  name  of  Undines.  You, 
howrever,  are  now  actually  beholding  an  Undine.” 

The  knight  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  his  beautiful  wife  was 
under  the  spell  of  one  of  her  strange  humors,  and  that  she  was  taking 
pleasure  in  teasing  him  with  one  of  her  extravagant  inventions.  But 
repeatedly  as  he  said  this  to  himself,  he  could  not  believe  it  for  a 
moment  ; a strange  shudder  passed  through  him  ; unable  to  utter  a 
word,  he  stared  at  the  beautiful  narrator  with  an  immovable  gaze. 
Undine  shook  her  head  sorrowfully,  drew  a deep  sigh,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded as  follows  : 

‘‘Our  condition  would  be  far  superior  to  that  of  other  human 
beings — for  human  beings  we  call  ourselves,  being  similar  to  them  in 
form  and  culture — but  there  is  one  evil  peculiar  to  us.  We  and  our 
like  in  the  other  element  vanish  into  dust,  and  pass  away,  body  and 
spirit,  so  that  not  a vestige  of  us  remains  behind  ; and  when  you 
mortals  hereafter  awake  to  a purer  life,  we  remain  with  the  sand  and 
the  sparks  and  the  wind  and  the  waves.  Hence  we  have  also  no 
souls  ; the  element  moves  us,  and  is  often  obedient  to  us  while  we 
live,  though  it  scatters  us  to  dust  when  we  die  ; and  we  are  merry, 
without  having  aught  to  grieve  us — merry  as  the  nightingales  and 
little  goldfishes  and  other  pretty  children  of  nature.  But  all  beings 
aspire  to  be  higher  than  they  are.  Thus  my  father,  who  is  a power- 
ful water-prince  in  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  desired  that  his  only 
daughter  should  become  possessed  of  a soul,  even  though  she  must 
then  endure  many  of  the  sufferings  of  those  thus  endowed.  Such  as 
we  are,  however,  can  only  obtain  a soul  by  the  closest  union  of  affec- 
tion with  one  of  your  human  race.  I am  now  possessed  of  a soul, 
and  my  soul  thanks  you,  my  inexpressibly  beloved  one,  and  it  will 
ever  thank  you,  if  you  do  not  make  my  whole  life  miserable.  For 
what  is  to  become  of  me  if  you  avoid  and  reject  me  ? Still  I would 


UNDINE. 


29 


not  retain  you  by  deceit.  And  if  you  mean  to  reject  me,  do  so  now, 
and  return  alone  to  the  shore.  I will  dive  into  this  brook,  which  is 
my  uncle  ; and  here  in  the  forest,  far  removed  from  other  friends,  he 
passes  his  strange  and  solitary  life.  He  is,  however,  powerful,  and  is 
esteemed  and  beloved  by  many  great  streams  ; and  as  he  brought  me 
hither  to  the  fisherman  a light-hearted,  laughing  child,  he  will  take 
me  back  again  to  my  parents,  a loving,  suffering,  soul-endowed 
woman.” 

She  was  about  to  say  still  more,  but  Huldbrand  embraced  her  with 
the  most  heartfelt  emotion  and  love,  and  bore  her  back  again  to  the 
shore.  It  was  not  till  he  reached  it  that  he  swore,  amid  tears  and 
kisses,  never  to  forsake  his  sweet  wife,  calling  himself  more  happy 
than  the  Greek  Pygmalion,  whose  beautiful  statue  received  life  from 
Venus  and  became  his  loved  one.  In  endearing  confidence  Undine 
walked  back  to  the  cottage,  leaning  on  his  arm,  feeling  now  for  the 
first  time  with  all  her  heart  how  little  she  ought  to  regret  the  forsaken 
crystal  palaces  of  her  mysterious  father. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HOW  THE  KNIGHT  TOOK  HIS  YOUNG  WIFE  WITH  HIM. 

When  Huldbrand  awoke  from  his  sleep  on  the  following  morning 
and  missed  his  beautiful  wife  from  his  side,  he  began  to  indulge  again 
in  the  strange  thoughts  that  his  marriage  and  the  charming  Undine 
herself  were  but  fleeting  and  deceptive  illusions.  But  at  the  same 
moment  she  entered  the  room,  sat  down  beside  him,  and  said,  “ 1 
have  been  out  rather  early,  to  see  if  my  uncle  keeps  his  word.  He 
has  already  led  all  the  waters  back  again  into  his  own  calm  channel, 
and  he  now  flows  through  the  forest,  solitarily  and  dreamily  as  be- 
fore. His  friends  in  the  water  and  the  air  have  also  returned  to  re- 
pose ; all  will  agai-n  go  on  quietly  and  regularly,  and  you  can  travel 
homeward  when  you  will,  dry-shod.”  It  seamed  to  Huldbrand  as 
though  he  were  in  a waking  dream,  so  little  could  he  reconcile  him- 
self to  the  strange  relationship  of  his  wife.  Nevertheless  he  made  no 
remark  on  the  matter,  and  the  exquisite  grace  of  his  bride  soon  lulled 
to  rest  every  uneasy  misgiving.  When  he  was  afterward  standing 
before  the  door  with  her,  and  looking  over  the  green  peninsula  with 
its  boundary  of  clear  waters,  he  felt  so  happy  in  this  cradle  of  his  lov# 
that  he  exclaimed,  “ Why  shall  we  travel  so  soon  as  to-day?  We 
shall  scarcely  find  more  pleasant  days  in  the  world  yonder  than  those 
we  have  spent  in  this  quiet  little  shelter.  Let  us  yet  see  the  sun  go 
down  here  twice  or  thrice  more.”  “ As  my  lord  wills,”  replied  Un- 


30 


UNDIXE. 


dine  humbly.  “ It  is  only  that  the  old  people  will,  at  all  events, 
part  from  me  with  pain,  and  when  they  now  for  the  first  time  per- 
ceive the  true  soul  within  me,  and  how  I can  now  heartily  love  and 
honor,  their  feeble  eyes  will  be  dimmed  with  plentiful  tears.  At  pres- 
ent they  consider  my  quietness  and  gentleness  of  no  better  promise 
than  before,  like  the  calmness  of  the  lake  when  the  air  is  still ; and 
as  matters  now  are,  they  will  soon  learn  to  cherish  a flower  or  a tree 
as  they  have  cherished  me.  Do  not  therefore  let  me  reveal  to  them 
this  newly-bestowed  and  loving  heart,  just  at  the  moment  when  they 
must  lose  it  for  this  world  ; and  how  could  I conceal  it  if  we  remain 
longer  together  ?” 

Huldbrand  conceded  the  point  ; he  went  to  the  aged  people  and 
talked  with  them  over  the  journey,  which  he  proposed  to  undertake 
immediately.  The  holy  father  offered  to  accompany  the  young  mar- 
ried pair,  and  after  a hasty  farewell  he  and  the  knight  assisted  the 
beautiful  bride  to  mount  her  horse,  and  walked  with  rapid  step  by 
her  side  over  the  dry  channel  of  the  forest- stream  into  the  wood  be- 
yond. Undine  wept  silently  but  bitterly,  and  the  old  people  gave 
loud  expression  to  their  grief.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had  a presenti- 
ment of  all  they  were  now  losing  in  their  foster-child. 

The  three  travellers  had  reached  in  silence  the  densest  shades  of 
the  forest.  It  must  have  been  a fair  sight,  under  that  green  canopy 
of  leaves,  to  see  Undine’s  lovely  form,  as  she  sat  on  her  noble  and 
richly  ornamented  steed,  with  the  venerable  priest  in  the  white  garb 
of  his  order  on  one  side  of  her,  and  on  the  other  the  blooming  young 
knight  in  his  gay  and  splendid  attire  with  his  sword  at  his  girdle. 
Huldbrand  had  np  eyes  but  for  his  beautiful  wife  ; Undine,  who  had 
dried  her  tears,  had  no  eyes  but  for  him,  and  they  soon  fell  into  a 
mute,  voiceless  converse  of  glance  and  gesture,  from  which  they  were 
only  roused  at  length  by  the  low  talking  of  the  reverend  father  with 
a fourth  traveller,  who  in  the  mean  while  had  joined  them  un- 
observed. 

He  wore  a white  garment,  almost  resembling  the  dress  of  the 
priest’s  order,  except  that  his  hood  hung  low  over  his  face,  and  his 
whole  attire  floated  round  him  in  such  vast  folds  that  he  was  obliged 
every  moment  to  gather  it  up  and  throw  it  over  his  arm,  or  dispose 
of  it  in  some  way,  and  yet  it  did  not  in  the  least  seem  to  impede  his 
movements.  When  the  young  couple  first  perceived  him  he  was 
just  saying,  “ And  so,  venerable  sir,  I have  now  dwelt  for  many 
years  here  in  the  forest,  and  yet  no  one  could  call  me  a hermit,  in 
your  sense  of  the  word.  For,  as  I said,  I know  nothing  of  penance, 
and  I do  not  think  I have  any  especial  need  of  it.  I love  the  forest 
only  for  this  reason,  that  its  beauty  is  quite  peculiar  to  itself,  and  it 
amuses  me  to  pass  along  in  my  flowing  white  garments  among  the 
leaves  and  dusky  shadows,  while  now  and  then  a sweet  sunbeam 
shines  down  unexpectedly  upon  me.”  “You  are  a very  strange 
man,  ’ ’ replied  the  priest,  ‘ ‘ and  1 should  like  to  be  more  closely  ac- 


UNDINE. 


31 


quainted  with  you.”  “ And  to  pass  from  one  thing  to  another,  who 
may  you  be  yourself?”  asked  the  stranger.  “I  am  called  Father 
Heilmann,”  said  the  holy  man  ; “ and  I come  from  the  monastery  of 
‘ Our  Lady,’  which  lies  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake.”  “ Indeed,”  re- 
plied the  stranger  ; “ my  name  is  Kiihleborn,  and  so  far  as  courtesy  is 
concerned  I might  claim  the  title  of  Lord  of  Kiihleborn,  or  free  Lord 
of  Kiihleborn  ; for  I am  as  free  as  the  birds  in  the  forest,  and  perhaps 
a little  more  so.  For  example,  I have  now  something  to  say  to  the 
young  lady  there.”  And  before  they  were  aware  of  his  intention  he 
was  at  the  other  side  of  the  priest,  close  beside  Undine,  stretching 
himself  up  to  whisper  something  in  her  ear.  But  she  turned  from 
him  with  alarm,  and  exclaimed,  “ 1 have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
you.”  “ Ho,  ho,”  laughed  the  stranger,  “ what  is  this  immensely 
grand  marriage  you  have  made,  that  you  don’t  know  your  own  re- 
lations any  longer?  Have  you  forgotten  your  uncle  Kiihleborn,  who 
so  faithfully  bore  you  on  his  back  through  this  region?”  “I  beg 
you,  nevertheless,”  replied  Undine,  “ not  to  appear  in  my  presence 
again.  I am  now  afraid  of  you  ; and  suppose  my  husband  should 
learn  to  avoid  me  when  he  sees  me  in  such  strange  company  and  with 
such  relations!”  “My  little  niece,”  said  Kulileborn,  “you  must 
not  forget  that  1 am  with  you  here  as  a guide  ; the  spirits  of  earth 
that  haunt  this  place  might  otherwise  play  some  of  their  stupid 
pranks  with  you.  Let  me  therefore  go  quietly  on  with  you  ; the  old 
priest  there  remembered  me  better  than  you  appear  to  have  done,  for 
he  assured  me  just  now  that  I seemed  familiar  to  him,  and  that  I 
must  have  been  with  him  in  the  boat,  out  of  which  he  fell  into  the 
water.  I was  so,  truly  enough  ; for  I was  the  waterspout  that  carried 
him  out  of  it  and  washed  him  safely  ashore  for  your  wedding.” 
Undine  and  the  knight  tuyned  toward  Father  Heilmann  ; but  he 
seemed  walking  on,  as  in  a sort  of  dream,  and  no  longer  to  be  con- 
scious of  all  that  was  passing.  Undine  then  said  to  Kiihleborn,  “ I 
see  yonder  the  end  of  the  forest.  We  no  longer  need  your  help,  and 
nothing  causes  us  alarm  but  yourself.  I beg  you  therefore,  in  all  love 
and  good-will,  vanish,  and  let  us  proceed  in  peace.”  Kulileborn 
seemed  to  become  angry  at  this  ; his  countenance  assumed  a frightful 
expression,  and  he  grinned  fiercely  at  Undine,  who  screamed  aloud 
and  called  upon  her  husband  for  assistance.  As  quick  as  lightning 
the  knight  sprang  to  the  other  side  of  the  horse  and  aimed  his  sharp 
sword  at  Kiihleborn ’s  head.  But  the  sword  cut  through  a waterfall, 
which  was  rushing  down  near  them  from  a lofty  crag  ; and  with  a 
splash,  which  almost  sounded  like  a burst  of  laughter,  it  poured  over 
them  and  wet  them  through  to  the  skin.  The  priest,  as  if  suddenly 
awaking,  exclaimed,  “ I have  long  been  expecting  that,  for  the 
stream  ran  down  from  the  height  so  close  to  us.  At  first  it  really 
seemed  to  me  like  a man,  and  as  if  it  could  speak.”  As  the  water- 
fall came  rushing  down  it  distinctly  uttered  these  words  in  Huld- 
brand’s  ear  : 


32 


UNDIKE. 


Rash  knight, 

Brave  knight, 

Rage  feel  I not, 

Chide  will  I not. 

But  ever  guard  thy  little  wife  as  well. 

Rash  knight,  brave  knight ! Protect  her  well  !” 

A few  footsteps  more  and  they  were  upon  open  ground.  The  im- 
perial city  lay  bright  before  them,  and  the  evening  sun,  which  gilded 
its  towers,  kindly  dried  the  garments  of  the  drenched  wanderers. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HOW  THEY  LIVED  IN  THE  CITY. 

The  sudden  disappearance  of  the  young  knight  Huldbrand  von 
Ringstetten  from  the  imperial  city  had  caused  great  sensation  and 
solicitude  among  those  who  had  admired  him  both  for  his  skill  in  the 
tournament  and  the  dance,  and  no  less  so  for  his  gentle  and  agree- 
able manners.  His  servants  would  not  quit  the  place  without  their 
master,  although  not  one  of  them  would  have  had  the  courage  to  go 
in  quest  of  him  into  the  shadowy  recesses  of  the  forest.  They  there- 
fore remained  in  their  quarters,  inactively  hoping,  as  men  are  wont 
to  do,  and  keeping  alive  the  remembrance  of  their  lost  lord  by  their 
lamentations.  When,  soon  after,  the  violent  storms  and  floods  were 
observed,  the  less  doubt  was  entertained  as  to  the  certain  destruction 
of  the  handsome  stranger  ; and  Bertalda  openly  mourned  for  him,  and 
blamed  herself  for  having  allured  the  unfortunate  knight  into  the 
forest.  Her  foster-parents,  the  duke  and  duchess,  had  come  to  fetch 
her  away,  but  Bertalda  entreated  them  to  remain  with  her  until  cer- 
tain intelligence  had  been  obtained  of  Huldbrand’s  fate.  She  en- 
deavored to  prevail  upon  several  young  knights,  who  were  eagerly 
courting  her,  to  follow  the  noble  adventurer  to  the  forest.  But  she 
would  not  pledge  her  hand  as  the  reward  of  the  enterprise,  because 
she  always  cherished  the  hope  of  belonging  to  the  returning  knight, 
and  no  glove  nor  riband  nor  even  kiss  would  tempt  any  one  to  ex- 
pose his  life  for  the  sake  of  bringing  back  such  a dangerous  rival. 

When  Huldbrand  now  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  appeared,  his 
servants  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  and  almost  every  one  re- 
joiced. Bertalda  alone  refused  to  do  so  ; for  agreeable  as  it  was  to 
the  others  that  he  should  bring  with  him  such  a beautiful  bride,  and 
Father  Heilmann  as  a witness  of  the  marriage,  Bertalda  could  feel 
nothing  but  grief  and  vexation.  In  the  first  place,  she  had  really 
loved  the  young  knight  with  all  her  heart,  and  in  the  next,  her  sor 
row  at  his  absence  had  proclaimed  this  far  more  before  the  eyes  of 
all  than  was  now  befitting.  She  still,  however,  conducted  herself  as 


UNDINE. 


33 


a "wise  maiden,  reconciled  herself  to  circum  lances,  and  lived  on  the 
most  friendly  terms  with  Undine,  who  was  looked  upon  throughout 
the  city  as  a princess  whom  Huldbrand  had  rescued  in  the  forest 
from  some  evil  enchantment.  When  she  and  her  husband  were  ques- 
tioned on  the  matter,  they  were  wise  enough  to  be  silent  or  skilfully 
to  evade  the  inquiries.  Father  Heilmann’s  lips  were  sealed  to  idle 
gossip  of  any  kind,  and  moreover,  immediately  after  Huldbrand ’s 
arrival,  he  had  returned  to  his  monastery  ; so  that  people  were 
obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  their  own  strange  conjectures,  and  even 
Bertalda  herself  knew  no  more  of  the  truth  than  others. 

Day  by  day  Undine  felt  her  affection  increase  for  the  fair  maiden. 
“ We  must  have  known  each  other  before,”  she  often  used  to  say  to 
her,  “ or  else  there  must  be  some  mysterious  connection  between  us, 
for  one  does  not  love  another  as  dearly  as  I have  loved  you  from  the 
first  moment  of  our  meeting  without  some  cause— some  deep  and 
secret  cause.  ” And  Bertalda  also  could  not  deny  the  fact  that  she 
felt  drawn  to  Undine  with  a tender  feeling  of  confidence,  however 
much  she  might  consider  that  she  had  cause  for  the  bitterest  lamen- 
tation at  this' successful  rival.  Biassed  by  this  mutual  affection,  they 
both  persuaded — the  one  her  foster-parents,  the  other  her  husband — 
to  postpone  the  day  of  departure  from  time  to  time  ; indeed,  it  was 
even  proposed  that  Bertalda  should  accompany  Undine  for  a time  to 
castle  Ringstetten,  near  the  source  of  the  Danube. 

They  were  talking  over  this  plan  one  beautiful  evening,  as  they 
were  walking  by  starlight  in  the  large  square  of  the  imperial  city, 
undei  the  tall  trees  that  inclose  it.  The  young  married  pair  had  in- 
vited Bertalda  to  join  them  in  their  evening  walk,  and  all  three  were 
strolling  up  and  down  under  the  dark  blue  sky,  often  interrupting 
their  familiar  talk  to  admire  the  magnificent  fountain  in  the  middle 
of  the  square,  as  its  waters  rushed  and  bubbled  forth  with  wonderful 
beauty.  It  had  a soothing,  happy  influence  upon  them  ; between  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  there  stole  glimmerings  of  light  from  the  ad- 
jacent houses  ; a low  murmur  of  children  at  play  and  of  others  en- 
joying their  walk  floated  around  them  ; they  were  so  alone  and  yet 
in  the  midst  of  the  bright  and  living  world  ; whatever  had  appeared 
difficult  by  day  now  became  smooth  as  of  itself  ; and  the  three 
friends  could  no  longer  understand  why  the  slightest  hesitation  had 
existed  with  regard  to  Bertalda’ s visit  to  Ringstetten.  Presently,  just 
as  they  were  on  the  point  of  fixing  the  day  for  their  common  depart- 
ure, a tall  man  approached  them  from  the  middle  of  the  square, 
bowed  respectfully  to  the  company,  and  said  something  in  the  ear  of 
the  young  wife.  Displeased  as  she  was  at  the  interruption  and  its 
£ause,  she  stepped  a little  aside  with  the  stranger,  and  both  began  to 
whisper  together,  as  it  seemed,  in  a foreign  tongue.  Huldbrand 
fancied  he  knew  the  strange  man,  and  he  stared  so  fixedly  at  him 
that  he  neither  heard  nor  answered  Bertalda’s  astonished  inquiries. 
All  at  once  Undine  clapped  her  hands  ioyfully,  and,  laughing,  quit- 


84 


UNDINE. 


ted  the  stranger’s  side,  who,  shaking  his  head,  retired  hastily  and  dis- 
contentedly  and  vanished  in  the  fountain.  Huldbrand  now  felt  cer- 
tain on  the  point,  but  Bertalda  asked,  “ And  what  did  the  master  of 
the  fountain  want  with  you,  dear  Undine  ?’  ’ The  young  wife  laughed 
within  herself,  and  replied,  “ The  day  after  to-morrow,  my  dear 
child,  on  the  anniversary  of  your  name  day,  you  shall  know  it.” 
And  nothing  more  would  she  disclose.  She  invited  Bertalda,  and  sent 
an  invitation  to  her  foster-parents,  to  dine  with  them  on  the  appointed 
day,  and  soon' after  they  parted. 

“ Kuhleborn?  was  it  Kiihleborn  ?”  said  Huldbrand,  with  a secret 
shudder,  to  his  beautiful  bride,  when  they  had  taken  leave  of  Ber- 
talda, and  were  now  going  home  through  the  darkening  streets. 
“ Yes,  it  was  he,”  replied  Undine  ; “ and  he  was  going  to  say  all 
sorts  of  nonsensical  things  to  me.  But  in  the  midst,  quite  contrary 
to  his  intention,  he  delighted  me  with  a most  welcome  piece  of  news. 
If  you  wish  to  hear  it  at  once,  my  dear  lord  and  husband,  you  have 
but  to  command,  and  I will  tell  it  you  without  reserve.  But  if  you 
would  confer  a real  pleasure  on  your  Undine,  you  will  wait  till  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  and  you  will  then  have  your  share  too  in  the 
surprise.  ’ ’ 

The  knight  gladly  complied  with  his  wife’s  desire,  which  had  been 
urged  so  sweetly,  and  as  she  fell  asleep  she  murmured  smilingly  to 
herself,  “ Dear,  dear  Bertalda  ! How  she  will  rejoice  and  be  aston- 
ished at  what  her  master  of  the  fountain  told  me  !” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  BERTALDA’S  NAME-DAY. 

The  company  were  sitting  at  dinner  ; Bertalda,  looking  like  some 
goddess  of  spring  with  her  flowers  and  jewels,  the  presents  of  her 
foster-parents  and  friends,  was  placed  between  Undine  and  Huld- 
brand. When  the  rich  repast  was  ended  and  the  last  course  had  ap- 
peared, the  doors  were  left  open,  according  to  a good  old  German 
custom,  that  the  common  people  might  look  on  and  take  part  in  the 
festivity  of  the  nobles.  Servants  were  carrying  round  cake  and  wine 
among  the  spectators.  Huldbrand  and  Bertalda  were  waiting  with 
secret  impatience  for  the  promised  explanation,  and  sat  with  their 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  Undine.  But  the  beautiful  wife  still  con- 
tinued silent,  and  only  kept  smiling  to  herself  with  secret  and  hearty 
satisfaction.  All  who  knew  of  the  promise  she  had  given  could  see 
that  she  was  every  moment  on  the  point  of  betraying  her  happy 
secret,  and  that  it  was  with  a sort  of  longing  renunciation  that  she 
withheld  it,  just  as  children  sometimes  delay  the  enjoyment  of  their 


UNDINE. 


35 


choicest  morsels.  Bertalda  and  Huldbrand  shared  this  delightful 
feeling,  and  expected  with  fearful  hope  the  tidings  which  were  to 
fall  from  the  lips  of  Undine.  Several  of  the  company  pressed  Un- 
dine to  sing.  The  request  seemed  opportune,  and  ordering  her  lute 
to  be  brought,  she  sang  the  following  words  : 

Bright  opening  day, 

Wild  flowers  so  gay, 

Tall  grasses  their  thirst  that  slake, 

On  the  banks  of  the  billowy,  lake  ! 

What  glimmers  there  so  shining, 

The  reedy  growth  entwining  ? 

Is  it  a blossom  white  as  snow 
Fallen  from  heaven  here  below  ? 

It  is  an  infant,  frail  and  dear  ! 

With  flowerets  playing  in  its  dreams 
And  grasping  morning’s  golden  beams. 

Oh,  whence,  sweet  stranger,  art  thou  her*  ? 

From  some  far-off  and  unknown  strand, 

The  lake  has  borne  thee  to  this  land. 

Nay,  grasp  not,  tender  little  one, 

With  thy  tiny  hand  outspread  ; 

No  hand  will  meet  thy  touch  with  love 
Mute  is  that  flowery  bed. 

The  flowers  can  deck  themselves  so  fair, 

And  breathe  forth  fragrance  blest, 

Yet  none  can  press  thee  to  itself, 

Like  that  far-off  mother’s  breast. 

So  early  at  the  gate  of  life, 

With  smiles  of  heaven  on  thy  brow, 

Thou  hast  the  best  of  treasures  lost, 

Poor,  wand’ring  child,  nor  know’st  it  now 

A noble  duke  comes  riding  by, 

And  near  thee  checks  his  courser’s  spesd, 

And  full  of  ardent  chivalry 
He  bears  thee  home  upon  his  steed. 

Much,  endless  much  has  been  thy  gain  ! 

Thou  bloom’st  the  fairest  in  the  land  ! 

Yet  ah  ! the  priceless  joy  of  all, 

Thou’st  left  upon  an  unknown  strand. 

Undine  dropped  her  lute  with  a melancholy  smile,  and  the  eyes  of 
Bertalda’s  foster-parents  were  filled  with  tears.  “ Yes,  so  it  was  on 
the  morning  that  I found  you,  my  poor  sweet  orphan,”  said  the 
duke,  deeply  agitated  ; “ the  beautiful  singer  is  certainly  right ; we 
have  not  been  able  to  give  you  that  ‘ priceless  joy  of  all.’  ” 

“ But  we  must  also  hear  how  it  fared  with  the  poor  parents,”  said 
Undine,  as  she  resumed  her  lute  and  sang  : 

Thro’  every  chamber  roams  the  mother, 

Moves  and  searches  everywhere, 

Seeks,  she  scarce  knows  what,  with  sadness, 

And  finds  an  empty  house  is  there. 


36 


UKDIXE. 


An  empty  house  ! Oh,  word  of  sorrow 
To  her  who  once  had  been  so  blest, 

Who  led  her  child  about  by  day 
And  cradled  it  at  night  to  rest. 

The  beech  is  growing  green  again, 

The  sunshine  gilds  its  wonted  spot, 

But,  mother,  cease  thy  searching  rain  1 
Thy  little  loved  one  cometh  not. 

And  when  the  breath  of  eve  blows  cool, 

And  father  in  his  home  appears, 

The  smile  he  almost  tries  to  wear 
Is  quenched  at  once  by  gushing  tears. 

Full  well  he  knows  that  in  his  home 
He  naught  can  find  but  wild  despair, 

He  hears  the  mother’s  grieved  lament 
And  no  bright  infant  greets  him  there. 

“ Oh,  for  God’s  sake,  Undine,  where  are  my  parents  ?”  cried  the 
weeping  Bertalda  ; “you  surely  know,  you  have  discovered  them, 
you  wonderful  being,  for  otherwise  you  would  not  have  thus  torn  my 
heart.  Are  they  perhaps  already  here?  Can  it  be?”  Her  eye 
passed  quickly  over  the  brilliant  company  and  lingered  on  a lady  of 
high  rank  who  was  sitting  next  her  foster-father.  Undine,  however, 
turned  toward  the  door,  while  her  eyes  overflowed  with  the  sweetest 
emotion.  “ Where  are  the  poor  waiting  parents  ?”  she  inquired,  and 
the  old  fisherman  and  his  wife  advanced  hesitatingly  from  the  crowd 
of  spectators.  Their  glance  rested  inquiringly,  now  on  Undine,  now 
on  the  beautiful  girl  who  was  said  to  be  their  daughter.  “ It  is  she,” 
said  the  delighted  benefactress,  in  a faltering  tone,  and  the  two  old 
people  hung  round  the  neck  of  their  recovered  child,  weeping  and 
praising  God. 

But,  amazed  and  indignant,  Bertalda  tore  herself  from  their  em- 
brace. Such  a recognition  was  too  much  for  this  proud  mind,  at  a 
moment  when  she  had  surely  imagined  that  her  former  splendor 
would  even  be  increased,  and  when  hope  was  deluding  her  with  a 
vision  of  almost  royal  honors.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  rival  had 
devised  all  this  on  purpose  signally  to  humble  her  before  Huldbrand 
and  the  whole  world.  She  reviled  Undine,  she  reviled  the  old  people, 
and  bitter  invectives,  such  as  “ deceiver”  and  “ bribed  impostors,” 
fell  from  her  lips.  Then  the  old  fisherman’s  wife  said,  in  a low  voice 
to  herself,  ‘ ‘ Ah  me,  she  is  become  a wicked  girl  ; and  yet  I feel  in 
my  heart  that  she  is  my  child.”  The  old  fisherman,  however,  had 
folded  his  hands,  and  was  praying  silently  that  this  might  not  be  his 
daughter.  Undine,  pale  as  death,  turned  with  agitation  from  the 
parents  to  Bertalda  and  from  Bertalda  to  the  parents  ; suddenly  cast 
down  from  that  heaven  of  happiness  of  which  she  had  dreamed,  and 
overwhelmed  with  a fear  and  a terror  such  as  she  had  never  known 
even  in  imagination.  “ Have  you  a soul  ? Have  you  really  a soul, 
Bertalda  ?”  she  cried  again  and  again  to  her  angry  friend,  as  if  forci 


U^DlJSfE. 


37 


bly  to  rouse  her  to  consciousness  from  some  sudden  delirium  or  mad 
dening  nightmare.  But  when  Bertalda  only  became  more  and  more 
enraged,  when  the  repulsed  parents  began  to  weep  aloud,  and  the 
company,  in  eager  dispute,  were  taking  different  sides,  she  begged  in 
such  a dignified  and  serious  manner  to  be  allowed  to  speak  in  this 
her  husband’s  hall,  that  all  around  were  in  a moment  silenced.  She 
then  advanced  to  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  where  Bertalda  had 
seated  herself,  and  with  a modest  and  yet  proud  air,  while  every  eye 
was  fixed  upon  her,  she  spoke  as  follows  : 

“ My  friends,  you  look  so  angry  and  disturbed,  and  you  have  in- 
terrupted my  happy  feast  by  your  disputings.  Ah  ! I knew  nothing 
of  your  foolish  habits  and  your  heartless  mode  of  thinking,  and  I 
shall  never  all  my  life  long  become  accustomed  to  them.  It  is  not 
my  fault  that  this  affair  has  resulted  in  evil  ; believe  me,  the  fault  is 
with  yourselves  alone,  little  as  it  may  appear  to  you  to  be  so.  I have 
therefore  but  little  to  say  to  you  ; but  one  thing  I must  say  : I have 
spoken  nothing  but  truth.  I neither  can  nor  will  give  you  proofs 
beyond  my  own  assertion,  but  I will  swear  to  the  truth  of  this.  I 
received  this  information  from  the  very  person  who  allured  Bertalda 
into  the  water,  away  from  her  parents,  and  who  afterward  placed 
her  on  the  green  meadow  in  the  duke’s  path.” 

“ She  is  an  enchantress  !”  cried  Bertalda,  “ a witch,  who  has  inter- 
course with  evil  spirits.  She  acknowledges  it  herself.” 

“ I do  not,”  said  Undine,  with  a whole  heaven  of  innocence  and 
confidence  beaming  in  her  eyes.  “ I am  no  witch  ; only  look  at 
me  !” 

“ She  is  false  and  boastful,  ” interrupted  Bertalda,  “ and  she  cannot 
prove  that  I am  the  child  of  these  low  people.  My  noble  parents,  I 
beg  you  to  take  me  from  this  company  and  out  of  this  city,  where 
they  are  only  bent  on  insulting  me.  ” But  the  aged  and  honorable 
duke  remained  unmoved,  and  his  wife  said,  “We  must  thoroughly 
examine  how  we  are  to  act.  God  forbid  that  we  should  move  a step 
from  this  hall  until  we  have  done  so.”  Then  the  old  wife  of  the 
fisherman  drew  near,  and  making  a low  reverence  to  the  duchess,  she 
said,  “ Noble,  God-fearing  lady,  you  have  opened  my  heart.  I must 
tell  you  if  this  evil-disposed  young  lady  is  my  daughter  she  has  a 
mark,  like  a violet,  between  her  shoulders,  and  another  like  it  on  the 
instep  of  her  left  foot.  If  she  would  only  go  out  of  the  hall  with 
me  !”  “I  shall  not  uncover  myself  before  the  peasant  woman  !”  ex- 
claimed Bertalda,  proudly  turning  her  back  on  her.  “But  before 
me  you  will,”  rejoined  the  duchess  very  gravely.  “ Follow  me  into 
that  room,  girl,  and  the  good  old  woman  shall  come  with  us.”  The 
three  disappeared,  and  the  rest  of  the  company  remained  where  they 
were,  in  silent  expectation.  After  a short  time  they  returned  ; Ber- 
talda was  pale  as  death.  “ Right  is  right,”  said  the  duchess  ; “ I 
must  therefore  declare  that  our  hostess  has  spoken  perfect  truth. 
Bertalda  is  the  fisherman’s  daughter,  and  that  is  as  much  as  it  is 
M.  C. — 15 


38 


UXiHiSE. 


necessary  to  inform  you  here.”  The  princely  pair  left  with  their 
adopted  daughter  ; and  at  a sign  from  the  duke  the  fisherman  and 
his  wife  followed  them.  The  other  guests  retired  in  silence  or  with 
secret  murmurs,  and  Undine  sank  weeping  into  Huldbrand’s  arms. 


CHAPTER  'XII. 

HOW  THEY  DEPARTED  FROM  THE  IMPERIAL  CITY. 

The  Lord  of  Ringstetten  would  have  certainly  preferred  the  events 
of  this  day  to  have  been  different ; but  even  as  they  were  he  could 
scarcely  regret  them  wholly,  as  they  had  exhibited  his  charming  wife 
under  such  a good  and  sweet  and  kindly  aspect.  ‘ ‘ If  I have  given 
her  a soul,”  he  could  not  help  saying  to  himself,  “I  have  indeed 
given  her  a better  one  than  my  own  ;”  and  his  only  thought  now 
was  to  speak  soothingly  to  the  weeping  Undine,  and  on  the  following 
morning  to  quit  with  her  a place  which,  after  this  incident,  must 
have  become  distasteful  to  her.  It  is  true  that  she  was  not  estimated 
differently  to  what  she  had  been.  As  something  mysterious  had 
long  been  expected  of  her,  the  strange  discovery  of  Bertalda’s  origin 
had  caused  no  great  surprise,  and  every  one  who  had  heard  the  story 
and  had  seen  Bertalda’s  violent  behavior  was  disgusted  with  her 
alone.  Of  this,  however,  the  knight  and  his  lady  knew  nothing  as 
yet ; and,  besides,  the  condemnation  or  approval  of  the  public  was 
equally  painful  to  Undine,  and  thus  there  was  no  better  course  to 
pursue  than  to  leave  the  walls  of  the  old  city  behind  them  with  all 
the  speed  possible. 

With  the  earliest  beams  of  morning  a pretty  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  entrance  gate  for  Undine  ; the  horses  which  Huldbrand  and  his 
squires  were  to  ride  stood  near,  pawing  the  ground  with  impatient 
eagerness.  The  knight  was  leading  his  beautiful  wife  from  the  door, 
when  a fisher-girl  crossed  their  way.  “ We  do  not  need  your  fish,” 
said  Huldbrand  to  her;  “we  are  now  starting  on  our  journey.” 
Upon  this  the  fisher-girl  began  to  weep  bitterly,  and  the  young 
couple  perceived  for  the  first  time  that  it  was  Bertalda.  Tney  im- 
mediately returned  with  her  to  their  apartment,  and  learned  from 
her  that  the  duke  and  duchess  were  so  displeased  at  her  violent  and 
unfeeling  conduct  on  the  preceding  day  that  they  had  entirely  with- 
drawn their  protection  from  her,  though  not  without  giving  her  a 
rich  portion. 

The  fisherman,  too,  had  been  handsomely  rewarded,  and  had  the 
evening  before  set  out  with  his  wife  to  return  to  their  secluded  home. 

“ I would  have  gone  with  them,  ” she  continued,  “ but  the  old  fish- 
erman, who  is  said  to  be  my  father — ” 


UPDIKE. 


39 


“ And  he  is  so  indeed,  Bertalda,”  interrupted  Undine.  “Look 
here  ; the  stranger,  whom  you  took  for  the  master  of  the  fountain, 
told  me  the  whole  story  in  detail.  He  wished  to  dissuade  me  from 
taking  you  with  me  to  castle  Ringstetten,  and  this  led  him  to  disclose 
the  secret.” 

“ Well,  then,”  said  Bertalda,  “ if  it  must  be  so — my  father  said, 
I will  not  take  you  with  me  until  you  are  changed.  Venture  to 
come  to  us  alone  through  the  haunted  forest  ; that  shall  be  the  proof 
whether  you  have  any  regard  for  us.  But  do  not  come  to  me  as  a 
lady  ; come  only  as  a fisher-girl  ! ’ So  I will  do  just  as  he  has  told 
me,  for  I am  forsaken  by  the  whole  world,  and  I will  live  and  die  in 
solitude  as  a poor  fisher-girl,  with  my  poor  parents.  I have  a ter- 
rible dread  though  of  the  forest.  Horrible  spectres  are  said  to  dwell 
in  it,  and  I am  so  fearful.  But  how  can  I help  it  ? I only  came  here 
to  implore  pardon  of  the  noble  lady  of  Ringstetten  for  my  unbecom- 
ing behavior  yesterday.  I feel  sure,  sweet  lady,  you  meant  to  do  me 
a kindness,  but  you  knew  not  how  you  would  wound  me,  and  in 
my  agony  and  surprise  many  a rash  and  frantic  expression  passed 
my  lips.  Oh,  forgive,  forgive  ! I am  already  so  unhappy.  Only 
think  yourself  what  I was  yesterday  morning,  yesterday  at  the  begin- 
ning of  your  banquet,  and  what  I am  now  !” 

Her  voice  became  stifled  with  a passionate  flood  of  tears,  and  Un- 
dine, also  weeping  bitterly,  fell  on  her  neck.  It  was  some  time  be- 
fore the  deeply  agitated  Undine  could  utter  a word  ; at  length  she 
said  : 

“ You  can  go  with  us  to  Ringstetten  ; everything  shall  remain  as 
it  was  arranged  before  ; only  do  not  speak  to  me  again  as  ‘ noble 
lady.’  You  see,  we  were  exchanged  for  each  other  as  children  ; our 
faces  even  then  sprang  as  it  were  from  the  same  stem,  and  we  will 
now  so  strengthen  this  kindred  destiny  that  no  human  power  shall  be 
able  to  separate  it.  Only,  first  of  all,  come  with  us  to  Ringstetten. 
We  will  discuss  there  how  we  will  share  all  things  as  sisters.”  Ber- 
talda looked  timidly  toward  Huldbrand.  He  pitied  the  beautiful 
girl  in  her  distress,  and  offering  her  his  hand,  he  begged  her  tenderly 
to  intrust  herself  with  him  and  his  wife.  “ We  will  send  a message 
to  your  parents,”  he  continued,  “to  tell  them  why  you  are  not 
come  ;”  and  he  would  have  added  more  with  regard  to  the  worthy 
fisherman  and  his  wife,  but  he  saw  that  Bertalda  shrank  with  pain 
from  the  mention  of  their  name,  and  he  therefore  refrained  from  say- 
ing more. 

He  then  assisted  her  first  into  the  carriage  ; Undine  followed  her  ; 
and  he  mounted  his  horse  and  trotted  merrily  by  the  side  of  them, 
urging  the  driver  at  the  same  time  to  hasten  his  speed,  so  that  very 
soon  they  were  beyond  the  confines  of  the  imperial  city  and  all  its 
sad  remembrances  ; and  now  the  ladies  began  to  enjoy  the  beautiful 
country  through  which  their  road  lay. 

After  a journey  of  some  days  they  arrived  one  exquisite  evening 


40 


OTDIJSTE, 


at  castle  Ringstetten.  The  young  knight  had  much  to  hear  from 
his  overseers  and  vassals,  so  that  Undine  and  Bertalda  were  left  alone. 

They  both  repaired  to  the  ramparts  of  the  fortress,  and  were  de- 
lighted with  the  beautiful  landscape  which  spread  far  and  wide 
through  fertile  Swabia. 

Presently  a tall  man  approached  them,  greeting  them  respectfully, 
and  Bertalda  fancied  she  saw  a resemblance  to  the  master  of  the 
fountain  in  the  imperial  city.  Still  more  unmistakable  grew  the 
likeness,  when  Undine  angrily  and  almost  threateningly  waved  him 
off,  and  he  retreated  with  hasty  steps  and  shaking  head,  as  he  had 
done  before,  and  disappeared  into  a neighboring  copse.  Undine, 
however,  said,  “ Don’t  be  afraid,  dear  Bertalda,  this  time  the  hateful 
master  of  the  fountain  shall  do  you  no  harm.”  And  then  she  told 
her  the  whole  story  in  detail,  and  who  she  was  hersel  f,  and  how  Ber- 
talda had  been  taken  away  from  the  fisherman  and  his  wife,  and 
Undine  had  gone  to  them.  The  girl  was  at  first  terrified  with  this 
relation  ; she  imagined  her  friend  must  be  seized  with  sudden  mad- 
ness, but  she  became  more  convinced  that  all  was  true,  for  Undine’s 
story  was  so  connected,  and  fitted  so  well  with  former  occurrences, 
and  still  more,  she  had  that  inward  feeling  with  which  truth  never 
fails  to  make  itself  known  to  us.  It  seemed  strange  to  her  that  she 
was  now  herself  living,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  fairy 
tales  to  which  she  had  formerly  only  listened. 

She  gazed  upon  Undine  with  reverence,  but  she  could  not  resist  a 
sense  of  dread  that  seemed  to  come  between  her  and  her  friend,  and 
at  their  evening  repast  she  could  not  but  wonder  how  the  knight 
could  behave  so  lovingly  and  kindly  toward  a being  who  appeared  to 
her,  since  the  discovery  she  had  just  made,  more  of  a phantom  than 
a human  being. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HOW  THEY  LIVED  AT  CASTLE  RINGSTETTEN. 

The  writer  of  this  story,  both  because  it  moves  his  own  heart  and 
because  he  wishes  it  to  move  that  of  others,  begs  you,  dear  reader, 
to  pardon  him,  if  he  now  briefly  passes  over  a considerable  space  of 
time,  only  cursorily  mentioning  the  events  that  marked  it.  He 
knows  well  that  he  might  portray  skilfully,  step  by  step,  how  Huld- 
brand’s  heart  began  to  turn  from  Undine  to  Bertalda  ; how  Bertalda 
more  and  more  responded  with  ardent  affection  to  the  young  knight, 
and  how  they  both  looked  upon  the  poor  wife  as  a mysterious  being 
rather  to  be  feared  than  pitied  ; how  Undine  wept,  and  how  her 
tears  stung  the  knight ’3  heart  with  remorse  without  awakening  his 
former  love,  so  that  though  he  at  times  was  kind  and  endearing  to 


UXD.IHE. 


41 


her,  a cold  shudder  would  soon  draw  him  from  her,  and  he  would 
turn  to  his  fellow-mortal,  Bertalda.  All  this  the  writer  knows  might 
be  fully  detailed,  and  perhaps  ought  to  have  been  so  ; but  such  a 
task  would  have  been  too  painful,  for  similar  things  have  been  known 
to  him  by  sad  experience,  and  he  shrinks  from  their  shadow  even  in 
remembrance.  You  know  probably  a like  feeling,  dear  reader,  for 
such  is  the  lot  of  mortal  man.  Happy  are  you  if  you  have  received 
rather  than  inflicted  the  pain,  for  in  such  things  it  is  more  blessed  to 
receive  than  to  give.  If  it  be  so,  such  recollections  will  only  bring 
a feeling  of  sorrow  to  your  mind,  and  perhaps  a tear  will  trickle 
down  your  cheek  over  the  faded  flowers  that  once  caused  you  such 
delight.  But  let  that  be  enough  We  will  not  pierce  our  hearts 
with  a thousand  separate  things,  but  only  briefly  state,  as  I have  just 
said,  how  matters  were. 

Poor  Undine  was  very  sad,  and  the  other  two  were  not  to  be  called 
happy.  Bertalda  especially  thought  that  she  could  trace  the  effect  of 
jealousy  on  the  part  of  the  injured  wife  whenever  her  wishes  were 
in  any  way  thwarted  by  her.  She  had  therefore  habituated  herself 
to  an  imperious  demeanor,  to  which  Undine  yielded  in  sorrowful 
submission,  and  the  now  blinded  Huldbrand  usually  encouraged  this 
arrogant  behavior  in  the  strongest  manner.  But  the  circumstance 
that  most  of  all  disturbed  the  inmates  of  the  castle  was  a variety  of 
wonderful  apparitions  which  met  Huldbrand  and  Bertalda  in  the 
vaulted  galleries  of  the  castle,  and  which  had  never  been  heard  of 
before  as  haunting  the  locality.  The  tall  white  man,  in  whom  Huld- 
brand recognized  only  too  plainly  Uncle  Kuhleborn,  and  Bertalda  the 
spectral  master  of  the  fountain,  often  passed  before  them  with  a 
threatening  aspect,  and  especially  before  Bertalda  ; so  much  so  that 
she  had  already  several  times  been  made  ill  with  terror,  and  had 
frequently  thought  of  quitting  the  castle.  But  still  she  stayed  there, 
partly  because  Huldbrand  was  so  dear  to  her,  and  she  relied  on  her 
innocence,  no  words  of  love  having  ever  passed  between  them,  and 
partly  also  because  she  knew  not  whither  to  direct  her  steps.  The 
old  fisherman,  on  receiving  the  message  from  the  Lord  of  Ringstetten 
that  Bertalda  was  his  guest,  had  written  a few  lines  in  an  almost 
illegible  hand,  but  as  good  as  his  advanced  age  and  long  disuse  would 
admit  of.  “I  have  now  become/’  he  wrote,  “ a poor  old  widower, 
for  my  dear  and  faithful  wife  is  dead.  However  lonely  I now  sit  in 
my  cottage,  Bertalda  is  better  with  you  than  with  me.  Only  let  her 
do  nothing  to  harm  my  beloved  Undine  ! She  will  have  my  curse  if 
it  be  so.”  The  last  words  of  this  letter  Bertalda  flung  to  the  winds, 
but  she  carefully  retained  the  part  respecting  her  absence  from  her 
father — just  as  we  are  all  wont  to  do  in  similar  circumstances. 

One  day,  when  Huldbrand  had  just  ridden  out,  Undine  summoned 
together  the  domestics  of  the  family,  and  ordered  them  to  bring  a 
large  stone  and  carefully  to  cover  with  it  the  magnificent  fountain 
which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  castle  yard.  The  servants  objected 


42 


uxdixe. 


that  it  would  oblige  them  to  bring  water  from  the  valley  below. 
Undine  smiled  sadly.  “ lam  sorry,  my  people, ” she  replied,  “to 
increase  your  work.  I would  rather  myself  fetch  up  the  pitchers, 
but  this  fountain  must  be  closed.  Believe  me  that  it  cannot  be  other- 
wise, and  that  it  is  only  by  so  doing  that  we  can  avoid  a greater  evil.” 
The  whole  household  were  glad  to  be  able  to  please  their  gentle 
mistress;  they  made  no  further  inquiry,  but  seized  the  enormous 
stone.  They  were  just  raising  it  in  their  hands,  and  were  already 
poising  it  over  the  fountain,  when  Bertalda  came  running  up,  and 
called  out  to  them  to  stop,  as  it  was  from  this  fountain  that  the  water 
was  brought  which  was  so  good  for  her  complexion,  and  she  would 
never  consent  to  its  being  closed.  Undine,  however,  although  gentle 
as  usual,  was  more  than  usually  firm.  She  told  Bertalda  that  it  was 
her  due,  as  mistress  of  the  house,  to  arrange  her  household  as  she 
thought  best,  and  that  in  this  she  was  accountable  to  no  one  but 
her  lord  and  husband.  “ See,  oh,  pray  see,”  exclaimed  Bertalda  in  an 
angry  yet  uneasy  tone,  “ how  the  poor  beautiful  water  is  curling  and 
writhing  at  being  shut  out  from  the  bright  sunshine  and  from  the 
cheerful  sight  of  the  human  face,  for  whose  mirror  it  was  created  !” 
The  water  in  the  fountain  was  indeed  wonderfully  agitated  and  hiss- 
ing ; it  seemed  as  if  something  within  were  struggling  to  free  itself, 
but  Undine  only  the  more  earnestly  urged  the  fulfilment  of  her 
orders.  The  earnestness  was  scarcely  needed.  The  servants  of  the 
castle  were  as  happy  in  obeying  their  gentle  mistress  as  in  opposing 
Bertalda's  haughty  defiance  ; and  in  spite  of  all  the  rude  scolding 
and  threatening  of  the  latter,  the  stone  was  soon  firmly  lying  over 
the  opening  of  the  fountain.  Undine  leaned  thoughtfully  over  it, 
and  wrote  with  her  beautiful  fingers  on  its  surface.  She  must, 
however,  have  had  something  very  sharp  and  cutting  in  her  hand, 
for  when  she  turned  away,  and  the  servants  drew  near  to  examine 
the  stone,  they  perceived  various  strange  characters  upon  it  which 
none  of  them  had  seen  there  before. 

Bertalda  received  the  knight,  on  his  return  home  in  the  evening, 
with  tears  and  complaints  of  Undine’s  conduct.  He  cast  a serious 
look  at  his  poor  wife,  and  she  looked  down  as  if  distressed.  Yet  she 
said,  with  great  composure,  “ My  lord  and  husband  does  not  reprove 
even  a bond  slave  without  a hearing,  how  much  less,  then,  his  Wedded 
wife?”  “Speak,”  said  the  knight  with  a gloomy  countenance; 
“ what  induced  you  to  act  so  strangely  ?”  “I  should  like  to  tell  you 
when  we  are  quite  alone,”  sighed  Undine.  “You  can  tell  me  just 
as  well  in  Bertalda’s  presence,”  was  the  rejoinder.  “Yes,  if  you 
command  me,  ’ ’ said  Undine  ; ‘ ‘ but  command  it  not.  Oh,  pray, 
pray  command  it  not  !”  She  looked  so  humble,  so  sweet,  and  obe- 
dient that  the  knight’s  heart  felt  a passing  gleam  from  better  times. 
He  kindly  placed  her  arm  within  his  own  and  led  her  to  his  apart- 
ment, when  she  began  to  speak  as  follows  : 

“You  already  know,  my  beloved  lord,  something  of  my  evil  uncle, 


UNDIKE. 


43 


Kiihleborn,  and  you  have  frequently  been  displeased  at  meeting 
him  in  the  galleries  of  this  castle.  He  has  several  times  frightened 
Bertalda  into  illness.  This  is  because  he  is  devoid  of  soul,  a mere 
elemental  mirror  of  the  outward  world,  without  the  power  of  reflect- 
ing the  world  within.  He  sees,  too,  sometimes,  that  you  are  dissat- 
isfied with  me  ; that  I,  in  my  childishness,  am  weeping  at  this,  and 
that  Bertalda  perhaps  is  at  the  very  same  moment  laughing.  Hence 
he  imagines  various  discrepancies  in  our  home  life,  and  in  many 
ways  mixes  unbidden  with  our  circle.  What  is  the  good  of  reprov- 
ing him  ? What  is  the  use  of  sending  him  angrily  away  ? He  does 
not  believe  a word  I say.  His  poor  nature  has  no  idea  that  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  love  have  so  sweet  a resemblance  and  are  so  closely 
linked  that  no  power  can  separate  them.  Amid  tears  a smile  shines 
forth,  and  a smile  allures  tears  from  their  secret  chambers.” 

She  looked  up  at  Huldbrand,  smiling  and  weeping  ; and  he  again 
experienced  within  his  heart  all  the  charm  of  his  old  love.  She  felt 
this,  and  pressing  him  more  tenderly  to  her  she  continued,  amid 
tears  of  joy  : “ As  the  disturber  of  our  peace  was  not  to  be  dismissed 
with  words,  I have  been  obliged  fo  shut  the  door  upon  him.  And 
the  only  door  by  which  he  obtains  access  to  us  is  that  fountain.  He 
is  cut  off  by  the  adjacent  valleys  from  the  other  water- spirits  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  his  kingdom  only  commences  farther  off  on  the 
Danube,  into  which  some  of  his  good  friends  direct  their  course. 
Bor  this  reason  I have  the  stone  placed  over  the  opening  of  the 
fountain,  and  I inscribed  characters  upon  it  which  cripple  all  my 
uncle’s  power,  so  that  he  can  now  neither  intrude  upon  you  nor 
upon  me  nor  upon  Bertalda.  Human  beings,  it  is  true,  can  raise 
the  stone  again  with  ordinary  effort,  in  spite  of  the  characters  in- 
scribed on  it.  The  inscription  does  not  hinder  them.  If  you  wish, 
therefore,  follow  Bertalda’s  desire,  but,  truly,  she  knows  not  what 
she  asks.  The  rude  Kuhleborn  has  set  his  mark  especially  upon 
her  ; and  if  much  came  to  pass  which  he  has  predicted  to  me,  and 
which  might  indeed  happen  without  your  meaning  any  evil — ah  ! 
dear  one,  even  you  would  then  be  exposed  to  danger  !” 

Huldbrand  felt  deeply  the  generosity  of  his  sweet  wife,  in  her 
eagerness  to  shut  up  her  formidable  protector  while  she  had  even 
been  chided  for  it  by  Bertalda.  He  pressed  her  in  his  arms  with  the 
utmost  affection,  and  said  with  emotion,  “ The  stone  shall  remain, 
and  all  shall  remain  now  and  ever  as  you  wish  to  have  it,  my  sweet 
Undine.”  She  caressed  lum  with  humble  delight  as  she  heard  the 
expressions  of  love  so  long  withheld,  and  then  at  length  she  said, 
“ My  dearest  husband,  you  are  so  gentle  and  kind  to-day,  may  I 
venture  to  ask  a.  favor  of  you?  See  now,  it  is  just  the  same  with 
you  as  it  is  with  summer.  In  the  height  of  its  glory,  summer  puts 
on  the  flaming  and  thundering  crown  of  mighty  storms,  and  assumes 
the  air  of  a king  over  the  earth.  You  too,  sometimes  let  your  fury 
rise,  and  your  eyes  flash  and  your  voice  is  angry,  and  this  becomes 


44 


UNDINE* 


you  well,  though  I in  my  folly  may  sometimes  weep  at  it.  But 
never,  I pray  you,  behave  thus  toward  me  on  the  water,  or  even 
when  we  are  near  it.  You  see,  my  relatives  would  then  acquire  a 
right  over  me.  They  would  unrelentingly  tear  me  from  you  in  their 
rage  ; because  they  would  imagine  that  one  of  their  race  was  injured, 
and  I should  be  compelled  all  my  life  to  dwell  below  in  the  crystal 
palaces,  and  should  never  dare  to  ascend  to  you  again  ; or  they  would 
send  me  up  to  you — and  that,  oh  God,  would  be  infinitely  worse. 
No,  no,  my  beloved  husband,  do  not  let  it  come  to  that,  if  your  poor 
Uridine  is  dear  to  you.” 

He  promised  solemnly  to  do  as  she  desired,  and  they  both  returned 
from  the  apartment  full  of  happiness  and  affection.  At  that  mo- 
ment Bertalda  appeared  with  some  workmen,  to  whom  she  had 
already  given  orders,  and  said,  in  a sullen  tone,  which  she  had  as- 
sumed of  late,  “ I suppose  the  secret  conference  is  at  an  end,  and 
now  the  stone  may  be  removed.  Go  out,  workmen,  and  attend  to 
it.”  But  the  knight,  angry  at  her  impertinence,  desired,  in  short 
and  very  decisive  words,  that  the  stone  should  be  left ; he  reproved 
Bertalda,  too,  for  her  violence  toward  his  wife.  Whereupon  the 
workmen  withdrew,  smiling  with  secret  satisfaction,  while  Ber- 
talda, pale  with  rage,  hurried  away  to  her  room. 

The  hour  for  the  evening  repast  arrived,  and  Bertalda  was  waited 
for  in  vain.  They  sent  after  her,  but  the  domestic  found  her  apart- 
ments empty,  and  only  brought  back  with  him  a sealed  letter  ad- 
dressed to  the  knight.  He  opened  it  with  alarm,  and  read  : “ I feel 
with  shame  that  I am  only  a poor  fisher  girl.  I will  expiate  my 
fault  in  having  forgotten  this  for  a moment,  by  going  to  the  miserable 
cottage  of  my  parents.  Farewell  to  you  and  your  beautiful  wife.” 

Undine  was  heartily  distressed.  She  earnestly  entreated  Huld- 
brand  to  hasten  after  their  friend  and  bring  her  back  again.  Alas  ! 
she  had  no  need  to  urge  him.  His  affection  for  Bertalda  burst  forth 
again  with  vehemence.  He  hurried  round  the  castle,  inquiring  if 
any  one  had  seen  which  way  the  fugitive  had  gone.  He  could  learn 
nothing  of  her,  and  he  was  already  on  his  horse  in  the  castle  yard, 
resolved  at  a venture  to  take  the  road  by  which  he  had  brought  Ber- 
talda hither.  Just  then  a page  appeared,  who  assured  him  that  he 
had  met  the  lady  on  the  path  to  the  Black  Valley.  Like  an  arrow 
the  knight  sprang  through  the  gateway  in  the  direction  indicated, 
without  hearing  Undine’s  voice  of  agony,  as  she  called  to  him  from 
the  window,  “ To  the  Black  Valley  ! Oh,  not  there  ! Huldbrand, 
don’t  go  there  ! or,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  take  me  with  you  !”  But 
when  she  perceived  that  all  her  calling  was  in  vain  she  ordered  her 
white  palfrey  to  be  immediately  saddled,  and  rode  after  the  knight, 
without  allowing  any  servant  to  accompany  her. 


UNDINE. 


45 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

HOW  BERTALDA  RETURNED  HOME  WITH  THE  KNIGHT. 

The  Black  Valley  lies  deep  within  the  mountains.  What  it  is  now 
called  we  do  not  know.  At  that  time  the  people  of  the  country  gave 
it  this  appellation  on  account  of  the  deep  obscurity  in  which  the  low 
land  lay,  owing  to  the  shadows  of  the  lofty  trees,  and  especially 
furs,  that  grew  Tihere.  Even  the  brook  which  bubbled  between  the 
rocks  wore  the  same  dark  hue,  and  dashed  along  with  none  of  that 
gladness  with  which  streams  are  wont  to  flow  that  have  the  blue  sky 
immediately  above  them.  Now,  in  the  growing  twilight  of  evening, 
it  looked  wild  and  gloomy  between  the  heights.  The  knight  trotted 
anxiously  along  the  edge  of  the  brook,  fearful  at  one  moment  that  by 
delay  he  might  allow  the  fugitive  to  advance  too  far,  and  at  the  next 
that  by  too  great  rapidity  he  might  overlook  her  in  case  she  were 
concealing  herself  from  him.  Meanwhile  he  had  already  penetrated 
tolerably  far  into  the  valley,  and  might  soon  hope  to  overtake  the 
maiden,  if  he  were  on  the  right  track.  The  fear  that  this  might  not 
be  the  case  made  his  heart  beat  with  anxiety.  Where  would  the 
tender  Bertalda  tarry  through  the  stormy  night,  which  was  so  fearful 
in  the  valley,  should  he  fail  to  find  her  ? At  length  he  saw  something 
white  gleaming  through  the  branches  on  the  slope  of  tliq  mountain. 
He  thought  he  recognized  Bertalda’s  dress,  and  he  turned  his  course 
in  that  direction.  But  his  horse  refused  to  go  forward  ; it  reared 
impatiently  ; and  its  master,  unwilling  to  lose  a moment,  and  seeing, 
moreover,  that  the  copse  was  impassable  on  horseback,  dismounted, 
and  fastening  his  snorting  steed  to  an  elm-tree  he  worked  his  way 
cautiously  through  the  bushes.  The  branches  sprinkled  his  forehead 
and  cheeks  with  the  cold  drops  of  the  evening  dew  ; a distant  roll  of 
thunder  was  heard  murmurning  from  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tains ; everything  looked  so  strange  that  he  began  to  feel  a dread  of 
the  white  figure,  which  now  lay  only  a short  distance  from  him  on 
the  ground.  Still  he  could  plainly  see  that  it  was  a female,  either 
asleep  od  in  a swoon,  and  that  she  was  attired  in  long  white  gar- 
ments, such  as  Bertalda  had  worn  on  that  day.  He  stepped  close  up 
to  her,  made  a rustling  with  the  branches,  and  let  his  sword  clatter, 
but  she  moved  not.  “Bertalda!”  he  exclaimed,  at  first  in  a low 
voice,  and  then  louder  and  louder — still  she  heard  not.  At  last, 
when  he  uttered  the  dear  name  with  a more  powerful  effort,  a 
hollow  echo  from  the  mountain  caverns  of  the  valley  indistinctly  re- 
verberated “Bertalda!”  but  still  the  sleeper  woke  not  He  bent 
down  over  her  ; the  gloom  of  the  valley  and  the  obscurity  of  ap- 
proaching night  would  not  allow  him  to  distinguish  her  features. 
Just  as  he  was  stooping  closer  over  her,  with  a feeling  of  painful 
doubt,  a flash  of  lightning  shot  across  the  valley,  and  he  saw  before 


46 


UNDIKE. 


him  a frightfully  distorted  countenance,  and  a hollow  voice  ex- 
claimed,  “Give  me  a kiss,  you  enamoured  swain!”  Huldbrand 
sprang  up  with  a cry  of  horror,  and  the  hideous  figure  rose  with 
him.  “Go  home!”  it  murmured;  “wizards  are  on  the  watch. 
Go  home  ! or  I will  have  you  !”  and  it  stretched  out  its  long  white 
arms  toward  him.  “ Malicious  Kuhleborn  !”  cried  the  knight,  recov- 
ering himself,  “what  do  you  concern  me,  you  goblin?  There, 
take  your  kiss  !”  And  he  furiously  hurled  his  sword  at  the  figure. 
But  it  vanished  like  vapor,  and  a gush  of  water  which  wetted  him 
through  left  the  knight  no  doubt  as  to  the  foe  with  whom  he  had 
been  engaged. 

“ He  wishes  to  frighten  me  back  from  Bertalda,”  said  he  aloud  to 
himself  ; “he  thinks  to  terrify  me  with  his  foolish  tricks,  and  to 
make  me  give  up  the  poor  distressed  girl  to  him,  so  that  he  can  wreak 
his  vengeance  on  her.  But  he  shall  not  do  that,  weak  spirit  of  the 
elements  as  he  is.  No  powerless  phantom  can  understand  what  a 
human  heart  can  do  when  its  best  energies  are  aroused.”  He  felt 
the  truth  of  his  words,  and  that  the  very  expression  of  them  had  in- 
spired his  heart  with  fresh  courage.  It  seemed  too  as  if  fortune  were 
on  his  side,  for  he  had  not  reached  his  fastened  horse  when  he  dis- 
tinctly heard  Bertalda’s  plaintive  voice  not  far  distant,  and  could 
catch  her  weeping  accents  through  the  ever-increasing  tumult  of  the 
thunder  and  tempest.  He  hurried  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound,  and  found  the  trembling  girl  just  attempting  to  climb  the 
steep,  in  order  to  escape  in  any  way  from  the  dreadful  gloom  of  the 
valley.  He  stepped,  however,  lovingly  in  her  path,  and  bold  and 
proud  as  her  resolve  had  before  been,  she  now  felt  only  too  keenly 
the  delight  that  the  friend  whom  she  so  passionately  loved  should 
rescue  her  from  this  frightful  solitude,  and  that  the  joyous  life  in 
the  castle  should  be  again  open  to  her.  She  followed  almost  unre- 
sisting, but  so  exhausted  with  fatigue  that  the  knight  was  glad  to 
have  brought  her  to  his  horse,  which  he  now  hastily  unfastened,  in 
order  to  lift  the  fair  fugitive  upon  it ; and  then,  cautiously  holding 
the  reins,  he  hoped  to  proceed  through  the  uncertain  shades  of  the 
valley. 

But  the  horse  had  become  quite  unmanageable  from  the  wild  ap- 
parition of  Kuhleborn.  Even  the  knight  would  have  had  difficulty 
in  mounting  the  rearing  and  snorting  animal,  but  to  place  the  trem- 
bling Bertalda  on  its  back  was  perfectly  impossible.  They  determined 
therefore  to  return  home  on  foot.  Drawing  the  horse  after  him  by 
the  bridle,  the  knight  supported  the  tottering  girl  with  his  other 
hand.  Bertalda  exerted  all  her  strength  to  pass  quickly  through  the 
fearful  valley,  but  weariness  weighed  her  down  like  lead,  and  every 
limb  trembled,  partly  from  the  terror  she  had  endured  when  Kiihlborn 
had  pursued  her,  and  partly  from  her  continued  alarm  at  the  howl- 
ing of  the  storm  and  the  pealing  of  the  thunder  through  the  wooded 
mountain. 


UNDINE. 


4? 


At  last  she  slided  from  the  supporting  arm  of  her  protector,  and 
sinking  down  on  the  moss  she  exclaimed,  “ Let  me  lie  here,  my 
noble  lord  ; I suffer  the  punishment  due  to  my  folly,  and  I must 
now  perish  here  through  weariness  and  dread.’ ’ “ No,  sweet  friend, 

I will  never  leave  you  !”  cried  Huldbrand,  vainly  endeavoring  to 
restrain  his  furious  steed;  for,  worse  than  before,  it  now  began  to 
foam  and  rear  with  excitement,  till  at  last  the  knight  was  glad  to 
keep  the  animal  at  a sufficient  distance  from  the  exhausted  maiden, 
lest  her  fears  should  be  increased.  But  scarcely  had  he  withdrawn 
a few  paces  with  the  wild  steed  than  she  began  to  call  after  him  in 
the  most  pitiful  manner,  believing  that  he  was  really  going  to  leave 
her  in  this  horrible  wilderness.  He  was  utterly  at  a loss  what  course 
to  take.  Gladly  would  he  have  given  the  excited  beast  its  liberty 
and  have  allowed  it  to  rush  away  into  the  night  and  spend  its  fury, 
had  he  not  feared  that  in  this  narrow  defile  it  might  come  thundering 
with  its  iron-shod  hoofs  over  the  very  spot  where  Bertalda  lay. 

In  the  midst  of  this  extreme  perplexity  and  distress,  he  heard  with 
delight  the  sound  of  a vehicle  driving  slowly  down  the  stony  road 
behind  them.  He  called  out  for  help,  and  a man’s  voice  replied, 
bidding  him  have  patience,  but  promising  assistance  ; and  soon  after 
two  gray  horses  appeared  through  the  bushes,  and  beside  them  the 
driver  in  the  white  smock  of  a carter  ; a great  white  linen  cloth 
was  next  visible,  covering  the  goods  apparently  contained  in  the 
wagon.  At  a loud  shout  from  their  master  the  obedient  horses 
halted.  The  driver  then  came  toward  the  knight  and  helped  him 
in  restraining  his  foaming  animal.  “I  see  well,”  said  he,  “what 
fails  the  beast.  When  I first  travelled  this  way  my  horses  were  no 
better.  The  fact  is,  there  is  an  evil  water-spirit  haunting  the  place, 
and  he  takes  delight  in  this  sort  of  mischief.  But  I have  learned  a 
charm  ; if  you  will  let  me  whisper  it  in  your  horse’s  ear  he  will 
stand  at  once  just  as  quiet  as  my  gray  beasts* are  doing  there.  ” “ Try 

your  luck  then,  only  help  us  quickly  !”  exclaimed  the  impatient 
knight.  The  wagoner  then  drew  down  the  head  of  the  rearing 
charger  close  to  his  own,  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear.  In  a 
moment  the  animal  stood  still  and  quiet,  and  his  quick  panting  and 
reeking  condition  was  all  that  remained  of  his  previous  unmanage- 
ableness. Huldbrand  had  no  time  to  inquire  how  all  this  had  been 
effected.  He  agreed  with  the  carter  that  he  should  take  Bertalda  on 
his  wagon,  where,  as  the  man  assured  him,  there  were  a quantity  of 
soft  cotton  bales,  upon  which  she  could  be  conveyed  to  castle  Ring- 
stetten,  and  the  knight  was  to  accompany  them  on  horseback.  But 
the  horse  appeared  too  much  exhausted  by  its  past  fury  to  be  able  to 
carry  its  master  so  far,  so  the  carter  persuaded  Huldbrand  to  get 
into  the  wagon  with  Bertalda.  The  horse  could  be  fastened  on  be- 
hind. “We  are  going  down  hill,”  said  he,  “ and  that  will  make  it 
light  for  my  gray  beasts.” 

The  knight  accepted  the  offer,  and  entered  the  wagon  with  Ber 


48 


UNDINE. 


talda  ; tlio  horse  followed  patiently  behind,  and  the  wagoner,  steady 
and  attentive,  walked  by  the  side. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night,  as  its  darkness  deepened  and  the  sub- 
siding tempest  sounded  more  and  more  remote,  encouraged  by  the 
sense  of  security  and  their  fortunate  escape,  a confidential  conversa- 
tion arose  between  Huldbrand  and  Bertalda.  With  flattering  words 
he  reproached  her  for  her  daring  flight  ; she  excused  herself  with 
humility  and  emotion,  and  from  every  word  she  said  a gleam  shone 
forth  which  disclosed  distinctly  to  the  lover  that  the  beloved  was 
his.  The  knight  felt  the  sense  of  her  words  far  more  than  he  re- 
garded their  meaning,  and  it  was  the  sense  alone  to  which  he  re- 
plied. Presently  the  wagoner  suddenly  shouted  with  a loud  voice, 
“ Up,  my  grays,  up  with  your  feet,  keep  together  ! remember  who 
you  are  !”  The  knight  leaned  out  of  the  wagon  and  saw  that  the 
horses  were  stepping  into  the  midst  of  a foaming  stream  or  were  al- 
ready almost  swimming,  while  the  wheels  of  the  wagon  were  rushing 
round  and  gleaming  like  mill-wheels,  and  the  wagoner  had  got  up  in 
front,  in  consequence  of  the  increasing  waters.  “ What  sort  of  a 
road  is  this?  It  goes  into  the  very  middle  of  the  stream,”  cried 
Huldbrand  to  his  guide.  “Not  at  all,  sir,”  returned  the  other, 
laughing  ; “ it  is  just  the  reverse,  the  stream  goes  into  the  very  middle 
of  our  road.  Look  round  and  see  how  everything  is  covered  by  the 
water.  ’ * 

The  whole  valley  indeed  was  suddenly  filled  with  the  surging 
flood,  that  visibly  increased.  “ It  is  Kiihleborn,  the  evil  water-spirit, 
who  wishes  to  drown  us  !”  exclaimed  the  knight.  “ Have  you  no 
charm  against  him,  my  friend?” 

“I  know  indeed  of  one,”  returned  the  wagoner,  “but  I cannot 
and  may  not  use  it  until  you  know  who  I am.” 

“Is  this  a time  for  riddles?”  cried  the  knight.  “The  flood  is 
ever  rising  higher,  and  what  does  it  matter  to  me  to  know  who  you 
are  ?”  “It  does  matter  to  you,  though,”  said  the  'wagoner,  “for  I 
am  Kiihleborn.” 

So  saying,  he  thrust  his  distorted  face  into  the  wagon  with  a grin, 
but  the  wagon  was  a wagon  no  longer,  the  horses  were  not  horses — 
all  was  transformed  to  foam  and  vanished  in  the  hissing  waves,  and 
even  the  wagoner  himself,  rising  as  a gigantic  billow,  drew  down 
the  vainly  struggling  horse  beneath  the  waters,  and  then  swelling 
higher  and  higher,  swept  over  the  heads  of  the  floating  pair,  like 
some  liquid  tower,  threatening  to  bury  them  irrecoverably. 

Just  then  the  soft  voice  of  Undine  sounded  through  the  uproar, 
the  moon  emerged  from  the  clouds,  and  by  its  light  Undine  was  seen 
on  the  heights  above  the  valley.  She  rebuked,  she  threatened  the 
floods  below  ; the  menacing  tower-like  wave  vanished,  muttering 
and  murmuring,  the  waters  flowed  gently  away  in  the  moonlight, 
and  like  a white  dove  Undine  flew  down  from  the  height,  seized  the 
knight  and  Bertalda,  and  bore  them  with  her  to  a fresh  green  turfy 


UNDINE. 


49 


spot  on  the  hill,  where  with  choice  refreshing  restoratives  she  dis- 
pelled their  terrors  and  weariness  ; then  she  assisted  Bertalda  to 
mount  the  white  palfrey,  on  which  she  had  herself  ridden  here,  and 
thus  all  three  returned  back  to  castle  Ringstetten. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  JOURNEY  TO  VIENNA. 

After  this  last  adventure  they  lived  quietly  and  happily  at  the 
castle.  The  knight  more  and  more  perceived  the  heavenly  goodness 
of  his  wife,  which  had  been  so  nobly  exhibited  by  her  pursuit,  and 
by  her  rescue  of  them  in  the  Black  Valley,  where  Kuhleborn’s  power 
again  commenced  ; Undine  herself  felt  that  peace  and  security  which 
is  never  lacking  to  a mind  so  long  as  it  is  distinctly  conscious  of 
being  on  the  right  path  ; and  besides,  in  the  newly-awakened  love 
and  esteem  of  her  husband,  many  a gleam  of  hope  and  joy  shone 
upon  her.  Bertalda,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  herself  grateful, 
humble,  and  timid,  without  regarding  her  conduct  as  anything  meri- 
torious. Whenever  Huldbrand  or  Undine  were  about  to  give  her  any 
explanation  regarding  the-  covering  of  the  fountain  or  the  adventure 
in  the  Black  Valley,  she  would  earnestly  entreat  them  to  spare  her 
the  recital,  as  she  felt  too  much  shame  at  the  recollection  of  the 
fountain,  and  too  much  fear  at  the  remembrance  of  the  Black  Valley. 
She  learned  therefore  nothing  further  of  either  ; and  for  what  end 
was  such  knowledge  necessary  ? Peace  and  joy  had  visibly  taken  up 
their  abode  at  castle  Ringstetten.  They  felt  secure  on  this  point, 
and  imagined  that  life  could  now  produce  nothing  but  pleasant 
flowers  and  fruits. 

In  this,  happy  condition  of  things,  winter  had  come  and  passed 
away,  and  spring  with  its  fresh  green  shoots  and  its  blue  sky  was 
gladdening  the  joyous  inmates  of  the  castle.  Spring  was  in  harmony 
with  them,  and  they  with  spring.  What  wonder,  then,  that  its  storks 
and  swallows  inspired  them  also  with  a desire  to  travel  ? One  day 
when  they  were  taking  a pleasant  walk  to  one  of  the  sources  of  the 
Danube,  Huldbrand  spoke  of  the  magnificence  of  the  noble  river, 
and  how  it  widened  as  it  flowed  through  countries  fertilized  by  its 
waters,  how  the  charming  city  of  Vienna  shone  forth  on  its  banks, 
and  how  with  every  step  of  its  course  it  increased  in  power  and  love- 
liness. “ It  must  be  glorious  to  go  down  the  river  as  far  as  Vienna  !” 
exclaimed  Bertalda,  but  immediately  relapsing  into  her  present  mod- 
esty and  humility  she  paused  and  blushed  deeply.  This  touched 
Undine- deeply,  and  with  the  liveliest  desire  to  give  pleasure  to  her 
friend  she  said,  “ What  hinders  us  from  starting  on  the  little  voy- 


50 


UKDWE. 


age?”  Bertalda  exhibited  the  greatest  delight,  and  both  she  and 
Undine  began  at  once  to  picture  the  tour  of  the  Danube  in  the 
brightest  colors.  Huldbrand  also  gladly  agreed  to  the  prospect  ; only 
he  once  whispered  anxiously  in  Undine’s  ear,  “ But  Kuhleborn  be- 
comes possessed  of  his  po\ypr  again  out  there  !”  “ Let  him  come,” 

she  replied  with  a smile  ; ” I shall  be  there,  and  he  ventures  upon 
none  of  his  mischief  before  me.”  The  last  impediment  was  thus 
removed  ; they  prepared  for  the  journey,  and  soon  after  set  out  upon 
it  with  fresh  spirits  and  the  brightest  hopes. 

But  wonder  not,  oh  man,  if  events  always  turn  out  different  to 
what  we  have  intended.  That  malicious  power,  lurking  for  out 
destruction,  gladly  lulls  its  chosen  victim  to  sleep  with  sweet  songs 
and  golden  delusions  ; while  on  the  other  hand  the  rescuing  messengef 
from  Heaven  often  knocks  sharply  and  alarmingly  at  our  door. 

During  the  first  few  days  of  their  voyage  down  the  Danube  they 
were  extremely  happy.  Everything  grew  more  and  more  beautiful, 
as  they  sailed  farther  and  farther  down  the  proudly  flowing  stream. 
But  in  a region  otherwise  so  pleasant,  and  in  the  enoyment  of  which 
they  had  promised  themselves  the  purest  delight,  the  ungovernable 
Kuhleborn  began,  undisguisedly,  to  exhibit  his  power  of  interference. 
This  was  indeed  manifested  in  mere  teasing  tricks,  for  Undine  often 
rebuked  the  agitated  waves  or  the  contra^  winds,  and  then  the  vio- 
lence of  the  enemy  would  be  immediately  humbled  ; but  again  the 
attacks  would  be  renewed,  and  again  Undine’s  reproofs  would  be- 
come necessary,  so  that  the  pleasure  of  the  little  party  was  com- 
pletely destroyed.  The  boatmen  too  were  continually  whispering  to 
each  other  in  dismay,  and  looking  with  distrust  at  the  three  strangers, 
whose  servants  even  began  more  and  more  to  forebode  something 
uncomfortable,  and  to  watch  their  superiors  with  suspicious  glances. 
Huldbrand  often  said  to  himself,  “ This  comes  from  like  not  being 
linked  with  like,  from  a man  uniting  himself  with  a mermaid  !” 
Excusing  himself  as  we  all  love  to  do,  he  would  often  think  indeed 
as  he  said  this,  “ I did  not  really  know  that  she  was  a sea-maiden  ; 
mine  is  the  misfortune,  that  every  step  I take  is  disturbed  and 
haunted  by  the  wild  caprices  of  her  race,  but  mine  is  not  the  fault.” 
By  thoughts  such  as  these  he  felt  himself  in  some  measure  strength- 
ened, but  on  the  other  hand  he  felt  increasing  ill-humor  and  almost 
animosity  toward  Undine.  He  would  look  at  her  with  an  expression 
of  anger,  the  meaning  of  which  the  poor  wife  understood  well. 
Wearied  with  this  exhibition  of  displeasure,  and  exhausted  by  the 
constant  effort  to  frustrate  Kuhleborn ’s  artifices,  she  sank  one  evening 
into  a deep  slumber,  rocked  soothingly  by  the  softly  gliding  bark. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  she  closed  her  eyes  than  every  one  in  the 
vessel  imagined  he  saw,  in  whatever  direction  he  turned,  a most  hor- 
rible human  head  ; it  rose  out  of  the  waves,  not  like  that  of  a person 
swimming,  but  perfectly  perpendicular,  as  if  invisibly  supported  up- 
right on  the  watery  surface,  and  floating  along  in  the  same  course 


UNDIKE. 


51 


with  the  bark.  Each  wanted  to  point  out  to  the  other  the  cause  of 
his  alarm,  but  each  found  the  same  expression  of  horror  depicted  on 
the  face  of  his  neighbor,  only  that  his  hands  and  eyes  were  directed 
to  a different  point  where  the  monster,  half  laughing  and  half  threat- 
ening, rose  before  him.  When,  however,  they  all*  wished  to  make 
each  understand  what  each  .saw,  and  all  were  crying  out,  “ Look 
there  ! No — there  !”  the  horrible  heads  all  at  one  and  the  same  time 
appeared  to  their  view,  and  the  whole  river  around  the  vessel 
swarmed  with  the  most  hideous  apparitions.  The  universal  cry 
raised  at  the  sight  awoke  Undine.  As  she  opened  her  eyes,  the  wild 
crowd  of  distorted  visages  disappeared.  But  Huldbrand  was  indig- 
nant at  such  unsightly  jugglery.  He  would  have  burst  forth  in  un- 
controlled imprecations,  had  not  Undine  said  to  him,  with  a humble 
manner  and  a softly  imploring  tone,  “ For  God’s  sake,  my  hus- 
band, we  are  on  the  water,  do  not  be  angry  with  me  now.”  The 
knight  was  silent,  and  sat  down  absorbed  in  reverie.  Undine  whis- 
pered in  his  ear,  “Would  it  not  be  better,  my  love,  if  we  gave  up 
this  foolish  journey  and  returned  to  castle  Ringstetten  in  peace?” 
But  Huldbrand  murmured  moodily,  “ So  I must  be  a prisoner  in 
my  own  castle,  and  only  be  able  to  breathe  so  long  as  the  fountain  is 
closed  ! I would  your  mad  kindred — ” Undine  lovingly  pressed 
her  fair  hand  upon  his  lips.  He  paused,  pondering  in  silence  over 
much  that  Undine  had  before  said  to  him. 

Bertalda  had  meanwhile  given  herself  up  to  a variety  of  strange 
thoughts.  She  knew  a good  deal  of  Undine’s  origin,  and  yet  not  the 
whole,  and  the  fearful  Kuhleborn  especially  had  remained  to  her  a 
terrible  but  wholly  unrevealed  mystery.  She  had  indeed  never  even 
heard  his  name.  Musing  on  these  strange  things,  she  unclasped, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  act,  a gold  necklace,  which  Huldbrand  had 
lately  purchased  for  her  of  a travelling  trader  ; half  dreamingly  she 
drew  it  along  the  surface  of  the  water,  enjoying  the  light  glimmer  it 
cast  upon  the  evening-tinted  stream.  Suddenly  a huge  hand  was 
stretched  out  of  the  Danube,  it  seized  the  necklace  and  vanished  with 
it  beneath  the  waters.  Bertalda  screamed  aloud,  and  a scornful  laugh 
resounded  from  the  depths  of  the  stream.  The  knight  could  now 
restrain  his  anger  no  longer.  Starting  up,  he  inveighed  against  the 
river  ; he  cursed  all  who  ventured  to  interfere  with  his  family  and  his 
life,  and  challenged  them,  be  they  spirits  or  sirens,  to  show  themselves 
before  his  avenging  sword. 

Bertalda  wept  meanwhile  for  her  lost  ornament,  wThich  was  so  pre- 
cious to  her,  and  her  tears  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  the  knight’s  an- 
ger, while  Undine  held  her  hand  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  dipping 
it  into  the  water,  softly  murmuring  to  herself,  and  only  now  and 
then  interrupting  her  strange  mysterious  whisper,  as  she  entreated 
her  husband,  “ My  dearly  loved  one,  do  not  scold  me  here  ; reprove 
others  if  you  will,  but  not  me  here.  You  know  why  !”  And  in- 
deed he  restrained  the  words  of  anger  that  were  trembling  on  his 


*52 


UNDINE. 


tongue.  Presently  in  her  wet  hand,  which  she  had  been  holding  un- 
der the  waves,  she  brought  up  a beautiful  coral  necklace  of  so  much 
brilliancy  that  the  eyes  of  all  were  dazzled  by  it.  “ Take  this,”  said 
she,  holding  it  out  kindly  to  Bertalda  ; “ I have  ordered  this  to  be 
brought  for  you  as  a compensation,  ,and  don’t  be  grieved  any  more, 
my  poor  child.  ” But  the  knight  sprang  between  them.  He  tore  the 
beautiful  ornament  from  Undine’s  hand,  hurled  it  again  into  the 
river,  exclaiming,  in  passionate  rage,  “ Have  you  then  still  a connec- 
tion with  them  ? In  the  name  of  all  the  witches,  remain  among  them 
with  your  presents,  and  leave  us  mortals  in  peace,  you  sorceress  !” 
Poor  Undine  gazed  at  him  with  fixed  but  tearful  eyes,  her  hand  still 
stretched  out,  as  when  she  had  offered  her  beautiful  present  so  lov- 
ingly to  Bertalda.  She  then  began  to  weep  more  and  more  violently, 
like  a dear  innocent  child,  bitterly  afflicted.  At  last,  wearied  out,  she 
said,  “ Alas,  sweet  friend,  alas  ! farewell  ! They  shall  do  you  no 
harm ; only  remain  true,  so  that  I may  be  able  to  keep  them  from 
you.  I must,  alas,  go  away  ; I must  go  hence  at  this  early  stage  of 
life.  Oh,  woe,  woe  ! What  have  you  done  ! Oh,  woe,  woe  !” 

She  vanished  over  the  side  of  the  vessel.  Whether  she  plunged 
into  the  stream  or  flowed  away  with  it  they  knew  not ; her  disap- 
pearance was  like  both  and  neither.  Soon,  however,  she  was  com- 
pletely lost  sight  of  in  the  Danube  ; only  a few  little  waves  kept 
whispering,  as  if  sobbing,  round  the  boat,  and  they  almost  seemed  to 
be  saying,  “ Oh,  woe,  woe  ! oh,  remain  true  ! oh,  woe  !” 

Huldbrand  lay  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  bathed  in  hot  tears,  and  a 
deep  swoon  soon  cast  its  veil  of  forgetfulness  over  the  unhappy  man. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HOW  IT  FARED  FURTHER  WITH  HULDBRAND. 

Shall  we  say  it  is  well  or  ill  that  our  sorrow  is  of  such  short  du- 
ration ? I mean  that  deep  sorrow  which  affects  the  very  well-spring 
of  our  life,  which  becomes  so  one  with  the  lost  objects  of  our  love  that 
they  are  no  longer  lost,  and  which  enshrines  their  image  as  a sacred 
treasure,  until  that  final  goal  is  reached  which  they  have  reached  be- 
fore us  ! It  is  true  that  many  men  really  maintain  these  sacred  mem- 
ories, but  their  feeling  is  no  longer  that  of  the  first  deep  grief.  Other 
and  new  images  have  thronged  between  ; we  learn  at  length  the 
transitoriness  of  all  earthly  things,  even  to  our  grief,  and  therefore  I 
must  say,  “ Alas,  that  our  sorrow  should  be  of  such  short  duration  !” 
The  lord  of  Ringstetten  experienced  this  : whether  for  his  good, 
we  shall  hear  in  the  sequel  to  this  history.  At  first  he  could  do  noth- 
ing but  weep,  and  that  as  bitterly  as  the  poor  gentle  Undine  had 


UNDINE. 


53 


wept  when  he  had  torn  from  her  hand  that  brilliant  ornament  with 
which  she  had  wished  to  set  everything  to  rights.  And  then  he 
would  stretch  out  his  hand,  as  she  had  done,  and  would  weep  again, 
like  her.  He  cherished  the  secret  hope  that  he  might  at  length  dis- 
solve in  tears  ; and  has  not  a similar  hope  passed  before  the  mind  of 
many  a one  of  us,  with  painful  pleasure,  in  moments  of  great  afflic- 
tion ? Bertalda  wept  also,  and  they  lived  a long  while  quietly  to- 
gether at  castle  Ringstetten,  cherishing  Undine’s  memory,  and  almost 
wholly  forgetful  of  their  former  attachment  to  each  other.  And 
therefore  the  good  Undine  often  visited  Huldbrand  in  his  dreams, 
caressing  him  tenderly  and  kindly,  and  then  going  away,  weeping 
silently,  so  that  when  he  awoke  he  often  scarcely  knew  why  his 
cheeks  were  so  wet  : whether  they  had  been  bathed  with  her  tears 
or  merely  with  his  own. 

These  dream-visions  became,  however,  less  frequent  as  time  passed 
on  and  the  grief  of  the  knight  was  less  acute  ; still  he  would  prob- 
ably have  cherished  no  other  wish  than  thus  to  think  calmly  of  Un- 
dine and  to  talk  of  her,  had  not  the  old  fisherman  appeared  one  day 
unexpectedly  at  the  castle,  and  sternly  insisted  on  Bertalda’s  return- 
ing with  him  as  his  child.  The  news  of  Undine’s  disappearance  had 
reached  him,  and  he  had  determined  on  no  longer  allowing  Bertalda 
to  reside  at  the  castle  with  the  widowed  knight.  “For, ’’said  he, 
“ whether  my  daughter  love  me  or  no  I do  not  care  to  know,  but  her 
honor  is  at  stake,  and  where  that  is  concerned,  nothing  else  is  to  be 
thought  of.  ’ ’ 

This  idea  of  the  old  fisherman’s  and  the  solitude  which  threatened 
to  overwhelm  the  knight  in  all  the  halls  and  galleries  of  the  desolate 
castle,  after  Bertalda’s  departure,  brought  out  the  feelings  that  had 
slumbered  till  now,  and  which  had  been  wholly  forgotten  in  his  sor- 
row for  Undine — namely,  Huldbrand’s  affection  for  the  beautiful 
Bertalda.  The  fisherman  had  many  objections  to  raise  against  the 
proposed  marriage.  Undine  had  been  very  dear  to  the  old  fisherman, 
and  he  felt  that  no  one  really  knew  for  certain  whether  the  dear  lost 
one  were  actually  dead.  And  if  her  body  were  truly  lying  cold  and 
stiff  at  the  bottom  of  the  Danube,  or  had  floated  away  with  the  cur- 
rent into  the  ocean,  even  then  Bertalda  was  in  some  measure  to 
blame  for  her  death,  and  it  was  unfitting  for  her  to  step  into  the  place 
of  the  poor  supplanted  one.  Yet  the  fisherman  had  a strong  regard 
for  the  knight  also  ; and  the  entreaties  of  his  daughter,  who  had  be- 
come much  more  gentle  and  submissive,  and  her  tears  for  Undine 
turned  the  scale,  and  he  must  at  length  have  given  his  consent,  for  he 
remained  at  the  castle  without  objection,  and  a messenger  was  dis- 
patched to  Father  Heilmann,  who  had  united  Undine  and  Huld- 
brand in  happy  days  gone  by,  to  bring  him  to  the  castle  for  the  sec- 
ond nuptials  of  the  knight. 

The  holy  man,  however,  had  scarcely  read  the  letter  from  the 
knight  of  Ringstetten  than  he  set  out  on  his  journey  to  the  casth , 


54 


UNDINE. 


with  far  greater  expedition  than  even  the  messenger  had  used  in 
going  to  him.  Whenever  his  breath  failed  in  his  rapid  progress,  or 
his  aged  limbs  ached  with  weariness,  he  would  say  to  himself,  “ Per- 
haps the  evil  may  yet  be  prevented  ; fail  not,  my  tottering  frame,  till 
you  have  reached  the  goal  !”  And  with  renewed  power  he  would 
then  press  forward,  and  go  on  and  on  without  rest  or  repose,  until 
late  one  evening  he  entered  the  shady  courtyard  of  castle  Ring- 
stetten. 

The  betrothed  pair  were  sitting  side  by  side  under  the  trees,  and 
the  old  fisherman  was  near  them  absorbed  in  thought.  The  moment 
they  recognized  Father  Heilmann  they  sprang  up,  and  pressed  round 
him  with  warm  welcome.  But  he,  without  making  much  reply,  beg- 
ged Huldbrand  to  go  with  him  into  the  castle  ; and  when  the  latter 
looked  astonished,  and  hesitated  to  obey  the  grave  summons,  the  rev- 
erend father  said  to  him,  “ Why  should  I make  any  delay  in  wish- 
ing to  speak  to  you  in  private,  Herr  von  Ringstetten  ? What  I have 
to  say  concerns  Bertalda  and  the  fisherman  as  much  as  yourself,  and 
what  a man  has  to  hear,  he  may  prefer  to  hear  as  soon  as  possible. 
Are  you  then  so  perfectly  certain,  Knight  Huldbrand,  that  your  first 
wife  is  really  dead  ? It  scarcely  seems  so  to  me.  I will  not  indeed 
say  anything  of  the  mysterious  condition  in  which  she  may  be  exist- 
ing, and  I know,  too,  nothing  of  it  with  certainty.  But  she  was  a 
pious  and  faithful  wife,  that  is  beyond  all  doubt ; and  for  a fortnight 
past  she  has  stood  at  my  bedside  at  night  in  my  dreams,  wringing  her 
tender  hands  in  anguish,  and  sighing  out,  ‘ Oh,  prevent  him,  good 
father  ! I am  still  living  ! oh,  save  his  life  ! save  his  soul ! ’ I did 
not  understand  what  this  nightly  vision  signified  ; when  presently 
your  messenger  came,  and  I hurried  hither,  not  to  unite  but  to  sep- 
arate what  ought  not  to  be  joined  together.  Leave  her,  Huldbrand  ! 
Leave  him,  Bertalda  ! He  yet  belongs  to  another  ; and  do  you  not 
see  grief  for  his  lost  wife  still  written  on  his  pale  cheek  ? No  bride- 
groom looks  thus,  and  a voice  tells  me  that  if  you  do  not  leave  him 
you  will  never  be  happy.’ ’ 

The  three  listeners  felt  in  their  innermost  heart  that  Father  Heil- 
mann spoke  the  truth,  but  they  would  not  believe  it.  Even  the  old 
fisherman  was  now  so  infatuated  that  he  thought  it  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  they  had  settled  it  in  their  discussions  during  the  last 
few  days.  They  therefore  all  opposed  the  warnings  of  the  priest 
with  a wild  and  gloomy  rashness,  until  at  length  the  holy  father 
quitted  the  castle  with  a sad  heart,  refusing  to  accept  even  for  a sin- 
gle night  the  shelter  offered,  or  to  enjoy  the  refreshments  brought 
him.  Huldbrand,  however,  persuaded  himself  that  the  priest  was 
full  of  whims  and  fancies,  and  with  dawn  of  day  he  sent  for  a father 
from  the  nearest  monastery,  who,  without  hesitation,  promised  to  per- 
form the  ceremony  in  a few  days. 


UNDINE. 


55 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  KNIGHT’S  DREAM. 

It  was  between  night  and  dawn  of  day  that  the  knight  was  lying 
on  his  couch,  half  waking,  half  sleeping.  Whenever  lie  was  on  the 
point  of  falling  asleep  a terror  seemed  to  come  upon  him  and  scare 
his  rest  away,  for  his  slumbers  were  haunted  with  spectres.  If  he 
tried,  however,  to  rouse  himself  in  good  earnest,  he  felt  fanned  as  b}' 
the  wings  of  a swan,  and  he  heard  the  soft  murmuring  of  waters, 
until,  soothed  by  the  agreeable  delusion,  he  sunk  back  again  into  a 
half-conscious  state.  At  length  he  must  have  fallen  sound  asleep,  for 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  lifted  up  upon  the  fluttering  wings  of 
the  swans  and  borne  by  them  far  over  land  and  sea,  while  they  sang 
to  him  their  sweetest  music.  “ The  music  of  the  swan  ! the  music  of 
the  swan  !”  he  kept  saying  to  himself  ; “ does  it  not  always  portend 
death  ?”  ■ But  it  had  yet  another  meaning.  All  at  once  he  felt  as  if 
he  were  hovering  over  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  A swan  was  singing 
musically  in  his  ear  that  this  was  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  And  while 
he 'Was  looking  down  upon  the  waters  below,  they  became  clear  as 
crystal,  so  that  he  could  see  through  them  to  the  bottom.  He  was 
delighted  at  this,  for  he  could  see  Undine  sitting  beneath  the  crystal 
arch.  It  is  true  she  was  weeping  bitterly,  and  looking  much  sadder 
than  in  the  happy  days  when  they  had  lived  together  at  the  castle  of 
Ringstetten,  especially  at  their  commencement,  and  afterward  also, 
shortly  before  they  had  begun  their  unhappy  Danube  excursion. 
The  knight  could  not  help  thinking  upon  all  this  very  fully  and 
deeply,  but  it  did  not  seem  as  if  Undine  perceived  him.  Meanwhile 
Kiilileborn  had  approached  her,  and  was  on  the  point  of  reproving 
her  for  her  weeping.  But  she  drew  herself  up,  and  looked  at  him 
with  such  a noble  and  commanding  air  that  he  almost  shrunk  back 
with  fear.  “ Although  I live  here  beneath  the  waters,”  said  she,  “ I 
have  yet  brought  down  my  soul  with  me  ; and  therefore  I may  well 
weep,  although  you  cannot  divine  what  such  tears  are.  They  too  are 
blessed,  for  everything  is  blessed  to  him  in  whom  a true  soul  dwells.” 
He  shook  his  head  incredulously,  and  said,  after  some  reflection, 
“ And  yet,  niece,  you  are  subject  to  the  laws  of  our  element,  and  if 
he  marries  again  and  is  unfaithful  to  you,  you  are  in  duty  bound  to 
take  away  his  life.”  “ He  is  a widower  to  this  very  hour,”  replied 
Undine,  “ and  his  sad  heart  still  holds  me  dear.”  “ He  is,  however, 
at  the  same  time  betrothed,”  laughed  Kiilileborn,  with  scorn  ; “and 
let  only  a few  days  pass  and  the  priest  will  have  given  the  nuptial 
blessing,  and  then  you  will  have  to  go  upon  earth  to  accomplish  the 
death  of  him  who  has  taken  another  to  wife.  ” “ That  I cannot  do,” 

laughed  Undine  in  return  ; “ I have  sealed  up  the  fountain  securely 


56 


UNDINE. 


against  myself  and  my  race.  ” “ But  suppose  he  should  leave  his  cas- 

tle/’ said  Kuhleborn,  “ or  should  have  the  fountain  opened  again  ! 
for  he  thinks  little  enough  of  these  things.”  “It  is  just  for  that  rea- 
son,” said  Undine,  still  smiling  amid  her  tears  ; “ it  is  just  for  that 
reason  that  he  is  now  hovering  in  spirit  over  the  Mediterranean  Sea, 
and  is  dreaming  of  this  conversation  of  ours  as  a warning.  I have 
intentionally  arranged  it  so.”  Kuhleborn,  furious  with  rage,  looked 
up  at  the  knight,  threatened,  stamped  with  his  feet,  and  then,  swift 
as  an  arrow,  shot  under  the  waves.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  swelling 
in  his  fury  to  the  size  of  a whale.  Again  the  swans  began  to  sing,  to 
flap  their  wings,  and  to  fly.  It  seemed  to  the  knight  as  if  he  were 
soaring  away  over  mountains  and  streams,  and  that  he  at  length 
reached  the  castle  Ringstetten,  and  awoke  on  his  couch. 

He  did  in  reality  awake  upon  his  couch,  and  his  squire  coming  in 
at  that  moment  informed  him  that  Father  Heilmann  was  still  linger- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  ; that  he  had  met  him  the  night  before  in 
the  forest,  in  a hut  which  he  had  formed  for  himself  of  the  branches 
of  trees  and  covered  with  moss  and  brushwood.  To  the  question 
what  he  was  doing  here,  since  he  would  not  give  the  nuptial  blessing, 
he  had  answered,  “There  are  other  blessings  besides  those  at  the 
nuptial  altar,  and  though  1 have  not  gone  to  the  wedding,  it  may  be 
that  I shall  be  at  another  solemn  ceremony.  We  must  be  ready  for 
all  things.  Besides,  marrying  and  mourning  are  not  so  unlike,  and 
every  one  not  wilfully  blinded  must  see  that  well.” 

The  knight  placed  various  strange  constructions  upon  these  words, 
and  upon  his  dream,  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  break  off  a thing  which 
a man  has  once  regarded  as  certain,  and  so  everything  remained  as  it 
had  been  arranged. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HOW  THE  KNIGHT  HULDBRAND  IS  MARRIED. 

If  I were  to  tell  you  how  the  marriage-feast  passed  at  castle  Ring- 
stetten, it  would  seem  to  you  as  if  you  saw  a heap  of  bright  and 
pleasant  things,  but  a gloomy  veil  of  mourning  spread  over  them  all, 
the  dark  hue  of  which  would  make  the  splendor  of  the  whole  look 
less  like  happiness  than  a mockery  of  the  emptiness  of  all  earthly 
joys.  It  was  not  that  any  spectral  apparitions  disturbed  the  festive 
company,  for  we  know  that  the  castle  had  been  secured  from  the 
mischief  of  the  threatening  water-spirits.  But  the  knight  and  the 
fisherman  and  all  the  guests  felt  as  if  the  chief  personage  were  still 
lacking  at  the  feast,  and  that  this  chief  personage  could  be  none  other 
than  the  loved  and  gentle  Undine.  Whenever  a door  opened,  the 
eyes  of  all  were  involuntarily  turned  in  that  direction,  and  if  it  was 


UNDINE. 


5? 


nothing  but  the  butler  with  new  dishes,  or  the  cup-bearer  with  a 
flask  of  still  richer  wine,  they  would  look  down  again  sadly,  and  the 
flashes  of  wit  and  merriment  which  had  passed  to  and  fro  would  be 
extinguished  by  sad  remembrances.  The  bride  was  the  most  thought- 
less of  all,  and  therefore  the  most  happy  ; but  even  to  her  it  some- 
times seemed  strange  that  she  should  be  sitting  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  wearing  a green  wreath  and  gold-embroidered  attire,  while 
Undine  was  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  Danube,  a cold  and  stiff 
corpse,  or  floating  away  with  the  current  into  the  mighty  ocean. 
For  ever  since  her  father  had  spoken  of  something  of  the  sort,  his 
words  were  ever  ringing  in  her  ear,  and  this  day  especially  they  were 
not  inclined  to  give  place  to  other  thoughts. 

The  company  dispersed  early  in  the  evening,  not  broken  up  by  the 
bridegroom  himself,  but  sadly  and  gloomily  by  the  joyless  mood  of 
the  guests  and  their  forebodings  of  evil.  Bertalda  retired  with  her 
maidens,  and  the  knight  with  his  attendants  ; but  at  this  mournful 
festival  there  was  no  gay  laughing  train  of  bridesmaids  and  brides- 
men. 

Bertalda  wished  to  arouse  more  cheerful  thoughts  ; she  ordered  a 
splendid  ornament  of  jewels  which  Huldbrand  had  given  her,  to- 
gether with  rich  apparel  and  veils,  to  be  spread  out  before  her,  in  or- 
der that  from  these  latter  she  might  select  the  brightest  and  most 
beautiful  for  her  morning  attire.  Her  attendants  were  delighted  at 
the  opportunity  of  expressing  their  good  wishes  to  their  young  mis- 
tress, not  failing  at  the  same  time  to  extol  the  beauty  of  the  bride  in 
the  most  lively  terms.  They  were  more  and  more  absorbed  in  these 
considerations,  till  Bertalda  at  length,  looking  in  a mirror,  said,  with 
a sigh,  “ Ah,  but  don’t  you  see  plainty  how  freckled  I am  growing 
here  at  the  side  of  my  neck  ?”  They  looked  at  her  throat,  and  found 
the  freckles  as  their  fair  mistress  had  said,  but  they  called  them 
beauty-spots,  and  mere  tiny  blemishes  only  tending  to  enhance  the 
whiteness  of  her  delicate  skin.  Bertalda  shook  her  head  and  asserted 
that  a spot  was  always  a defect.  “ And  I could  remove  them,”  she 
sighed  at  last,  “ only  the  fountain  is  closed  from  which  I used  to 
have  that  precious  and  purifying  water.  Oh,  if  I had  but  a flask  of 
it  to-day  !”  “Is  that  all  ?”  said  an  alert  waiting-maid,  laughing,  as 
she  slipped  from  the  apartment.  “She  will  not  be  so  mad,”  ex- 
claimed Bertalda,  in  a pleased  and  surprised  tone,  “she  will  not  be  so 
mad  as  to  have  the  stone  removed  from  the  fountain  this  very 
evening?”  At  the  same  moment  they  heard  the  men  crossing  the 
courtyard,  and  could  see  from  the  window  how  the  ofllcious  waiting- 
woman  was  leading  them  straight  up  to  the  fountain,  and  that  they 
were  carrying  levers  and  other  instruments  on  their  shoulders.  “ It 
is  certainly  my  will,”  said  Bertalda,  smiling,  “ if  only  it  does  not  take 
too  long.”  And,  happy  in  the  sense  that  a look  from  her  now  was 
able  to  effect  what  had  formerly  been  so  painfully  refused  her,  she 
watched  the  progress  of  the  work  in  the  moonlit  castle-court. 


58 


UKDJLNE. 


The  men  raised  the  enormous  stone  with  an  effort  ; now  and  then 
indeed  one  of  their  number  would  sigh,  as  he  remembered  that  they 
were  destroying  the  work  of  their  former  beloved  mistress.  But  the 
labor  was  far  lighter  than  they  had  imagined.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
power  within  the  spring  itself  were  aiding  them  in  raising  the  stone. 
“ It  is  just,”  said  the  workmen  to  eaeh  other  in  astonishment,  “ as  if 
the  water  within  had  become  a springing  fountain.”  And  the  stone 
rose  higher  and  higher,  and  almost  without  the  assistance  of  the  work- 
men it  rolled  slowly  down  upon  the  pavement  with  a hollow  sound. 
But  from  the  opening  of  the  fountain  there  rose  solemnly  a white  col- 
umn of  water  ; at  first  they  imagined  it  had  really  become  a spring- 
ing fountain,  till  they  perceived  that  the  rising  form  was  a pale  fe- 
male figure  veiled  in  white.  She  was  weeping  bitterly,  raising  her 
hands  wailingly  above  her  head  and  wringing  them,  as  she  walked 
with  a slow  and  serious  step  to  the  castle-building.  The  servants  fled 
from  the  spring  ; the  bride,  pale  and  stiff  with  horror,  stood  at  the 
window  with  her  attendants.  When  the  figure  had  now  come  close 
beneath  her  room  it  looked  moaningly  up  to  her,  and  Bertalda 
thought  she  could  recognize  beneath  the  veil  the  pale  features  of  Un- 
dine. But  the  sorrowing  form  passed  on,  sad,  reluctant,  and  falter- 
ing, as  if  passing  to  execution. 

Bertalda  screamed  out  that  the  knight  was  to  be  called,  but  none  of 
her  maids  ventured  from  the  spot ; and  even  the  bride  herself  became 
mute,  as  if  trembling  at  her  own  voice. 

While  they  were  still  standing  fearfully  at  the  window,  motionless 
as  statues,  the,  strange  wanderer  had  reached  the  castle,  had  passed 
up  the  well-known  stairs  and  through  the  well-known  halls,  ever  in 
silent  tears.  Alas  ! how  differently  had  she  once  wandered  through 
them  ! 

The  knight,  partly  undressed,  had  already  dismissed  his  attendants, 
and  in  a ihood  of  deep  dejection  he  was  standing  before  a large  mir- 
ror ; a taper  was  burning  dimly  beside  him.  There  was  a gentle  tap 
at  his  door.  Undine  used  to  tap  thus  when  she  wanted  playfully  to 
tease  him.  “ It  is  all  fancy,”  said  he  to  himself  ; “ I must  seek  my 
nuptial  bed.”  “ So  you  must,  but  it  must  be  a cold  one  !”  he  heard 
a tearful  voice  say  from  without,  and  then  he  saw  in  the  mirror  his 
door  opening  slowly — slowly — and  the  white  figure  entered,  carefully 
closing  it  behind  her.  “They  have  opened  the  spring,”  said  she 
softly,  “ and  now  I am  here,  and  you  must  die.”  He  felt  in  his  par- 
alyzed heart  that  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  but  covering  his  eyes  with 
his  hands  he  said,  “Do  not  make  me  mad  with  terror  in  my  hour 
of  death.  If  you  wear  a hideous  face  behind  that  veil,  dp  not  raise 
it,  but  take  my  life,  and  let  me  see  you  not.”  “ Alas  !”  replied  the 
figure,  “ will  you  then  not  look  upon  me  oftce  more  ? I am  as  fair  as 
when  you  wooed  me  on  the  promontory.”  “ Oh,  if  it  were  so  !” 
sighed  Iluldbrand,  “and  if  I might  die  in  your  fond  embrace!” 
“ Most  gladly,  my  loved  one,”  said  she  ; and  throwing  her  veil  back, 


UKDINE. 


59 


her  lovely  face  smiled  forth  divinely  beautiful.  Trembling  with  love 
and  with  the  approach  of  death,  she  kissed  him  with  a holy  kiss  ; but 
not  relaxing  her  hold  she  pressed  him  fervently  to  her,  and  wept  as  if 
she  would  weep  away  her  soul.  Tears  rushed  into  the  knight’s  eyes 
and  seemed  to  surge  through  his  heaving  breast,  till  at  length  his 
breathing  ceased,  and  he  fell  softly  back  from  the  beautiful  arms  of 
Undine,  upon  the  pillows  of  his  couch — a corpse. 

“ I have  wept  him  to  death,”  said  she  to  some  servants  who  met 
her  in  the  antechamber  ; and,  passing  through  the  affrighted  group, 
she  went  slowly  out  toward  the  fountain. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HOW  THE  KNIGHT  HULDBRAND  WAS  BURIED. 

Father  IIeilmann  had  returned  to  the  castle  as  soon  as  the  death 
of  the  lord  of  Ringstetten  had  been  made  known  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  he  appeared  at  the  very  same  moment  that  the  monk,  who  had 
married  the  unfortunate  couple  was  fleeing  from  the  gates  over- 
whelmed with  fear  and  terror.  “It  is  well,”  replied  Heilmann, 
when  he  was  informed  of  this  ; “ now  my  duties  begin,  and  I need 
no  associate.”  Upon  this  he  began  to  console  the  bride,  now  a 
widow,  small  result  as  it  produced  upon  her  worldly,  thoughtless 
mind.  The  old  fisherman,  on  the  other  hand,  although  heartily 
grieved,  was  far  more  resigned  to  the  fate  which  had  befallen  his 
daughter  and  son-in-law,  and  while  Bertalda  could  not  refrain  from 
abusing  Undine  as  a murderess  and  sorceress,  the  old  man  calmly 
said,  “ It  could  not  be  otherwise  after  all ; I see  nothing  in  it  but 
the  judgment  of  God,  and  no  one’s  heart  has  been  more  deeply 
grieved  by  Huldbrand’s  death  than  that  of  her  by  whom  it  was  in- 
flicted— the  poor  forsaken  Undine  !” 

At  the  same  time  he  assisted  in  arranging  the  funeral  solemnities  as 
befitted  the  rank  of  the  deceased. 

The  knight  was  to  be  interred  in  a village  churchyard  which  was 
filled  with  the  graves  of  his  ancestors.  And  this  church  had  been  en- 
dowed with  rich  privileges  and  gifts  both  by  these  ancestors  and  by 
himself.  His  shield  and  helmet  lay  already  on  the  coffin,  to  be  low- 
ered with  it  into  the  grave,  for  Sir  Huldbrand  of  Ringstetten  had  died 
the  last  of  his  race  ; the  mourners  began  their  sorrowful  march,  sing- 
ing requiems  under  the  bright  calm  canopy  of  heaven  ; Father  Heil 
mann  walked  in  advance,  bearing  a high  crucifix,  and  the  inconso- 
lable Bertalda  followed,  supported  by  her  aged  father.  Suddenly, 
in  the  midst  of  the  black-robed  attendants  in  the  widow’s  train,  a 
snow-white  figure  was  seen,  closely  veiled,  and  wringing  her  hands 


60 


UNDINE. 


with  fervent  sorrow.  Those  near  whom  she  moved  felt  a secret 
dread,  and  retreated  either  backward  or  to  the  side,  i:  erasing  by 
their  movements  the  alarm  of  the  others  near  to  whom  the  white 
stranger  was  now  advancing,  and  thus  a confusion  in  the  funeral  train 
was  well-nigh  beginning.  Some  of  the  military  escort  were  so  dar- 
ing as  to  address  the  figure,  and  to  attempt  to  remove  it  from  the 
procession  ; but  she  seemed  to  vanish  from  under  their  hands,  and 
yet  was  mmediately  seen  advancing  again  amid  the  dismal  cortege 
with  slow  and  solemn  step.  At  length,  in  consequence  of  the  con- 
tinued shrinking  of  the  attendants  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  she 
came  close  behind  Bertalda.  The  figure  now  moved  so  slowly  that 
the  widow  did  not  perceive  it,  and  it  walked  meekly  and  humbly 
behind  her  undisturbed. 

This  lasted  till  they  came  to  the  churchyard,  where  the  procession 
formed  a circle  round  the  open  grave.  Then  Bertalda  saw  her  un- 
bidden companion,  and  starting  up  half  in  anger  and  half  in  terror, 
she  commanded  her  to  leave  the  knight’s  last  resting-place.  The 
veiled  figure,  however,  gently  shook  her  head  in  refusal,  and  raised 
her  hands  as  if  in  humble  supplication  to  Bertalda,  deeply  agitating 
her  by  the  action,  and  recalling  to  her  with  tears  how  Undine  had 
so  kindly  wished  to  give  her  that  coral  necklace  on  the  Danube. 
Father  Heilmann  motioned  with  his  hand  and  commanded  silence, 
as  they  were  to  pray  in  mute  devotion  over  the  body  which 
they  were  now  covering  with  the  earth.  Bertalda  knelt  silently, 
and  all  knelt,  even  the  gravediggers  among  the  rest,  when  they  had 
finished  their  task.  But  when  they  rose  again  the  white  stranger 
had  vanished  ; on  the  spot  wThere  she  had  knelt  there  gushed  out  of 
the  turf  a little  silver  spring,  which  rippled  and  murmured  away 
till  it  had  almost  entirely  encircled  the  knight’s  grave  ; then  it  ran 
farther  and  emptied  itself  into  a lake  which  lay  by  the  side  of  the 
burial  place.  Even  to  this  day  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  show 
the  spring,  and  cherish  the  belief  that  it  is  the  poor  rejected  Undine, 
who  in  this  manner  still  embraces  her  husband  in  her  loving  arms. 


i 


i 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A mild  summer  evening  was  resting  on  the  shores  of  Malaga, 
awakening  the  guitar  of  many  a merry  singer  among  the  ships  in  the 
harbor,  and  in  the  city  houses,  and  in  many  an  ornamental  garden 
villa.  Emulating  the  voices  of  the  birds,  the  melodious  tones  greeted 
the  refreshing  coolness,  and  floated  like  perfumed  exhalations  from 
meadow  and  water,  over  the  enchanting  region.  Some  troops  of  in- 
fantry who  were  on  the  shore,  and  who  purposed  to  spend  the  night 
there,  that  they  might  be  ready  for  embarkation  early  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  forgot  amid  the  charms  of  the  pleasant  eventide  that 
they  ought  to  devote  these  last  few  hours  on  European  soil  to  ease 
and  slumber  ; they  began  to  sing  military  songs,  to  drink  to  each 
other  with  their  flasks  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  rich  wine  of  Xeres, 
toasting  to  the  long  life  of  the  mighty  Emperor  Charles  V . , who 
was  now  besieging  the  pirate-nest  Tunis,  and  to  whose  assistance  they 
were  about  to  sail.  The  merry  soldiers  were  not  all  of  one  race. 
Only  two  companies  consisted  of  Spaniards  ; the  third  was  formed 
of  pure  Germans,  and  now  and  then  among  the  various  fellow-com- 
batants the  difference  of  manners  and  language  had  given  rise  to 
much  bantering.  Now,  however,  the  fellowship  of  the  approaching 
sea-  voyage  and  of  the  glorious  perils  to  be  shared,  as  well  as  the  re- 
freshing feeling  which  the  soft  southern  evening  poured  over  soul 
and  sense,  united  the  band  of  comrades  in  perfect  and  undisturbed 
harmony.  The  Germans  tried  to  speak  Castilian,  and  the  Spaniards 
to  sp$4k  German,  without  its  occurring  to  any  one  to  make  a fuss 
about  the  mistakes  and  confusions  that  happened.  They  mutually 
helped  each  other,  thinking  of  nothing  else  but  the  good-will  of  their 
companions,  each  drawing  near  to  his  fellow  by  means  of  his  own 
language. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  merry  tumult,  a young  German  captain, 
Sir  Heimbert  of  Waldhausen,  was  reclining  under  a cork-tree,  gaz- 
ing earnestly  up  at  the  stars,  apparently  in  a very  different  mood  to 
the  fresh,  merry  sociability  which  his  comrades  knew  and  loved  in 


62 


THE  TWO  CAPTAIKS. 


him.  Presently  the  Spanish  captain,  Don  Fadrique  Mendez,  ap- 
proached him  ; he  was  a youth  like  the  other,  and  was  equally 
skilled  in  martial  exercises,  but  he  was  generally  as  austere  and 
thoughtful  as  Heimbert  was  cheerful  and  gentle.  “ Pardon,  Senor,” 
began  the  solemn  Spaniard,  “ if  I disturb  you  in  your  meditations. 
But  as  I have  had  the  honor  of  often  seeing  you  as  a courageous 
warrior  and  faithful  brother  in  arms  in  many  a hot  encounter,  I 
would  gladly  solicit  you  above  all  others  to  do  me  a knightly  service, 
if  it  does  not  interfere  with  your  own  plans  and  projects  for  this 
night.”  “ Dear  sir,”  returned  Heimbert  courteously,  “ I have  cer- 
tainly an  affair  of  importance  to  attend  to  before  sunrise,  but  till  mid- 
night I am  perfectly  free,  and  ready  to  render  you  any  assistance  as 
a brother  in  arms.”  “ Enough,”  said  Fadrique,  “ for  at  midnight 
the  tones  must  long  have  ceased  with  which  I shall  have  taken  fare- 
well of  the  dearest  being  I have  ever  known  in  this  my  native  city. 
But  that  you  may  be  as  fully  acquainted  with  the  whole  affair  as 
behoves  a noble  companion,  listen  to  me  attentively  for  a few  mo- 
ments. 

“ Some  time  before  I left  Malaga  to  join  the  army  of  our  great  em- 
peror and  to  aid  in  spreading  the  glory  of  his  arms  through  Italy,  I 
was  devoted,  after  the  fashion  of  young  knights,  to  the  service  of  a 
beautiful  girl  in  this  city,  named  Lucila.  She  had  at  that  time 
scarcely  reached  the  period  which  separates  childhood  from  ripe 
maidenhood,  and  as  I— a boy  only  just  capable  of  bearing  arms— 
offered  my  homage  with  a childlike,  friendly  feeling,  it  was  also  re- 
ceived by  my  young  mistress  in  a similar  childlike  manner.  1 
marched  at  length  to  Italy,  and  as  you  yourself  know,  for  we  have 
been  companions  since  then,  I was  in  many  a hot  fight  and  in  many 
an  enfchantingly  alluring  region  in  that  luxurious  land.  Amid  all 
our  changes,  I held  unalterably  within  me  the  image  of  my  gentle 
mistress,  never  pausing  in  the  honorable  service  1 had  vowed  to  her, 
although  I cannot  conceal  from  you  that  in  so  doing  it  was  rather  to 
fulfil  the  word  I had  pledged  at  my  departure  than  from  any  im- 
pelling and  immoderately  ardent  feeling  in  my  heart.  When  we  re- 
turned to  my  native  city  from  our  foreign  wanderings,  a few  weeks 
ago,  I found  my  mistress  married  to  a rich  and  noble  knight  residing 
here.  Fiercer  far  than  love  had  been  was  the  jealousy — that  almost  al- 
mighty child  of  heaven  and  hell — which  now  spurred  me  onto  follow 
Lucila’s  steps,  from  her  home  to  the  church,  from  thence  to  the  house 
of  a friend,  from  thence  again  to  her  home  or  to  some  noble  circle  of 
knights  and  ladies,  and  afi  this  as  unweariedly  and  as  closely  as  was 
possible.  When  I had  at  length  assured  myself  that  no  other  young 
knight  attended  her,  and  that  she  devoted  herself  entirely  to  the  hus- 
band chosen  for  her  by  her  parents  rather  than  desired  by  herself,  I 
felt  perfectly  satisfied,  and  I should  not  have  troubled  you  at  this 
moment  had  not  Lucila  approached  me  the  day  before  yesterday 
and  whispered  in  my  ear  that  I must  not  provoke  her  husband,  for 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


63 


he  was  very  passionate  and  bold  ; that  not  the  slightest  danger 
threatened  her  in  the  matter  because  he  loved  and  honored  her 
above  everything,  but  that  his  wrath  would  vent  itself  all  the  more 
furiously  upon  me.  You  can  readily  understand,  my  noble  com- 
rade, that  I could  not  help  proving  my  contempt  of  all  personal  dan 
ger  by  following  Lucila  more  closely  than  ever,  and  singing  nightly 
serenades  beneath  her  flower-decked  windows  till  the  morning  star 
began  to  be  reflected  in  the  sea.  This  very  night  Lucila’s  husband 
sets  out  at  midnight  for  Madrid,  and  from  that  hour  I will  in  every 
way  avoid  the  street  in  which  they  live  ; until  then,  however,  as 
soon  as  it  is  sufficiently  dark  to  be  suitable  for  a serenade,  I will 
have  love-romances  unceasingly  sung  before  his  house.  It  is  true  I 
have  information  that  not  only  he  but  Lucila’s  brothers  are  ready  to 
enter  upon  a quarrel  with  me,  and  it  is  for  this  reason.  Seiior,  that  I 
have  requested  you  to  bear  me  company  with  your  good  sword  in 
this  short  expedition.  ” 

Heimbert  seized  the  Spaniard’s  hand  as  a pledge  of  his  readiness, 
saying  as  lie  did  so,  “ To  show  you,  dear  sir,  how  gladly  I will  do 
what  you  desire  of  me,  I will  requite  your  confidence  with  confi- 
dence, and  will  relate  a little  incident  which  occurred  to  me  in  this 
city,  and  will  beg  you  after  midnight  also  to  render  me  a small  ser- 
vice. My  story  is  short,  and  will  not  detain  us  longer  than  we  must 
wait  before  the  twilight  has  become  deeper  and  more  gloomy. 

On  the  day  after  we  arrived  here  I amused  myself  with  walk- 
ing in  the  beautiful  gardens  with  which  the  place  abounds.  1 have 
now  been  long  in  these  southern  lands,  but  I cannot  but  believe  that 
the  dreams  which  transport  me  nightly  back  to  my  German  home 
are  the  cause  for  my  feeling  everything  here  so  strange  and  astonish- 
ing. At  all  events,  every  morning  when  I wake  I wonder  anew,  as 
if  I were  only  just  arrived.  So  I was  walking  then,  like  one  in- 
fatuated, among  the  aloe-trees,  which  were  scattered  among  the  lau- 
rels and  oleanders.  Suddenly  a cry  sounded  near  me,  and  a slender 
girl,  dressed  in  white,  fled  into  my  arms,  fainting,  while  her  com- 
panions dispersed  past  us  in  every  direction.  A soldier  can  always 
tolerably  soon  gather  his  senses  together,  and  I speedily  perceived  a 
furious  bull  was  pursuing  the  beautiful  maiden.  I threw  her  quickly 
over  a thickly  planted  hedge,  and  followed  her  myself,  upon  which 
the  beast,  blind  with  rage,  passed  us  by,  and  I have  heard  no  more  of 
it  since,  except  that  some  young  knights  in  an  adjacent  courtyard 
had  been  making  a trial  with  it  previous  to  a bull-fight,  and  that  it 
was  on  this  account  that  it  had  broken  so  furiously  through  the  gar- 
dens. 

“ I wTas  now  standing  quite  alone,  with  the  fainting  lady  in  my 
arms,  and  she  was  so  wonderfully  beautiful  to  look  at  that  I have 
never  in  my  life  felt  happier  than  I then  did,  and  also  never  sadder. 
At  last  I laid  her  down  on  the  turf,  and  sprinkled  her  angelic  brow 
with  water  from  a neighboring  little  fountain.  And  so  she  came  to 


THE  TWO  G APT  A IKS. 


64 

herself  again,  and  when  she  opened  her  bright  and  lovely  eyes  I 
thought  I could  imagine  how  the  glorified  spirits  must  feel  in 
heaven. 

“ She  thanked  me  with  graceful  and  courteous  words,  and  called 
me  her  knight  ; but  in  my  state  of  enchantment  I could  not  utter  a 
syllable,  and  she  must  have  almost  thought  me  dumb.  At  length  my 
speech  returned,  and  the  prayer  at  once  was  breathed  forth  from  my 
heart,  that  the  sweet  lady  would  often  again  allow  me  to  see  her  in  this 
garden  ; for  that  in  a few  weeks  the  service  of  the  emperor  would 
drive  me  into  the  burning  land  of  Africa,  and  that  until  then  she 
should  vouchsafe  me  the  happiness  of  beholding  her.  She  looked  at 
me  half  smiling,  half  sadly,  and  said,  ‘ Yes.’  And  she  has  kept  her 
word  and  has  appeared  almost  daily,  without  our  having  yet  spoken 
much  to  each  other.  For  although  she  has  been  sometimes  quite 
alone,  I could  never  begin  any  other  topic  but  that  of  the  happiness 
of  walking  by  her  side.  Often  she  has  sung  to  me,  and  I have  sung 
to  her  also.  When  I told  her  yesterday  that  our  departure  wTas  so 
near,  her  heavenly  eyes  seemed  to  me  suffused  with  tears.  I must  also 
have  looked  sorrowful,  for  she  said  to  me,  in  a consoling  tone,  ‘ Oh, 
pious,  childlike  warrior  ! one  may  trust  you  as  one  trusts  an  angel. 
After  midnight,  before  the  morning  dawn  breaks  for  your  departure, 
I give  you  leave  to  take  farewell  of  me  in  this  very  spot.  If  you 
could,  however,  find  a true  and  discreet  comrade  to  watch  the  en- 
trance from  the  street,  it  would  be  well,  for  many  a soldier  may  be 
passing  at  that  hour  through  the  city  on  his  way  from  some  farewell 
carouse.’  Providence  has  now  sent  me  such  a comrade,  and  at  one 
o’clock  I shall  go  joyfully  to  the  lovely  maiden.” 

“ I only  wish  the  service  on  which  you  require  me  were  more  rich 
in  danger,”  rejoined  Fadrique,  “ so  that  I might  better  prove  to  you 
that  I am  yours  with  life  and  limb.  But  come,  noble  brother,  the 
hour  for  my  adventure  is  arrived.” 

And  wrapped  in  their  mantles,  the  youths  walked  hastily  toward 
the  city,  Fadrique  carrying  his  beautiful  guitar  under  his  arm. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Tiie  night-smelling  fiowers  in  Lucila’s  window  were  already  be- 
ginning to  emit  their  refreshing  perfume  when  Fadrique,  leaning  in 
the  shadow  of  the  angle  of  an  old  church  opposite,  began  to  tune  his 
guitar.  Heimbert  had  stationed  himself  not  far  from  him,  behind  a 
pillar,  his  drawn  sword  under  his  mantle,  and  his  clear  blue  eyes, 
like  two  watching  stars,  looking  calmly  and  penetrating  around. 
Fadrique  sung  : 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


C5 


“ Upon  a meadow  green  with  spring, 

A little  flower  was  blossoming, 

With  petals  red  and  snowy  white  ; 

To  me,  a youth,  my  soul’s  delight 
Within  that  blossom  lay, 

And  I have  loved  my  song  to  indite 
And  flattering  homage  pay. 

“ Since  then  a wanderer  I have  been, 

And  many  a bloody  strife  have  seen  ; 

And  now  returned,  I see 
The  little  floweret  stands  no  more 
Upon  the  meadow  as  before  ; 

Transplanted  by  a gardener’s  care, 

And  hedged  by  golden  trellis  there, 

It  is  denied  tome. 

“ I grudge  him  not  his  trellised  guard, 

His  bolts  of  iron,  strongly  barred  ; 

Yet,  wandering  in  the  cool  night-air, 

I touch  my  zitter’s  string, 

And  as  afore  her  beauties  rare, 

Her  wondrous  graces  sing, 

And  e’en  the  gardener  shall  not  dare 
Kef  use  the  praise  I bring.” 

“That  depends,  Senor,”'said  a man,  stepping  close,  and  as  he 
thought  unobserved,  before  Fadrique  ; but  the  latter  had  already  been 
informed  of  his  approach  by  a sign  from  his  watchful  friend,  and  he  was 
therefore  ready  to  answer  with  the  greater  coolness,  “ If  you  wish,  Se- 
hor,  to  commence  a suit  with  my  guitar,  she  has,  at  all  events,  a tongue 
of  steel,  which  has  already  onmauy  occasions  done  her  excellent  ser- 
vice. With  whom  is  it  your  pleasure  to  speak,  with  the  guitar  or  the 
advocate  ?” 

While  the  stranger  was  silent  from  embarrassment,  two  mantled  fig- 
ures had  approached  Heimbert  and  remained  standing  a few  steps  from 
him,  as  if  to  cut  off  Fadrique ’s  flight  in  case  he  intended  to  escape. 
“ I believe,  dear  sirs,”  said  Heimbert  in  a courteous  tone,  “ we  are 
here  on  the  same  errand — namely,  to  prevent  any  intrusion  upon  the 
conference  of  yonder  knights.  At  least,  as  far"  as  I am  concerned, 
you  may  rely  upon  it  that  any  one  who  attempts  to  interfere  in  their 
affair  will  receive  my  dagger  in  his  heart.  Be  of  good  cheer,  there- 
fore ; I think  we  shall  both  do  our  duty.”  The  two  gentlemen 
bowed  courteously  and  were  silent.' 

The  quiet  self-possession  with  which  the  two  soldiers  carried  on 
the  whole  affair  was  most  embarrassing  to  their  three  adversaries, 
and  they  were  at  a loss  to  know  how  they  should  begin  the  dispute. 
At  last  Fadrique  again  touched  the  strings  of  his  guitar,  and  was 
preparing  to  begin  another  song.  This  mark  of  contempt  and  appar- 
ent disregard  of  danger  and  hazard  so  enraged  Lucila’s  husband 
(for  it  was  he  who  had  taken  his  stand  by  Don  Fadrique)  that  with- 
out further  delay  he  drew  his  sword  from  his  sheath,  and  with  a 
voice  of  suppressed  rage  called  out,  “ Draw,  or  I shall  stab  you  !” 
‘Very  gladly,  Sehor,”  replied  Fadrique  quietly;  “you  need  not 


P*6 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


threaten  me  ; you  might  as  well  have  said  so  calmly.”  And  so  say- 
ing he  placed  his  guitar  carefully  in  a niche  in  the  church  wall, 
seized  his  sword,  and,  bowing  gracefully  to  his  opponent,  the  fight 

began. 

At  first  the  two  figures  by  Heimbert’s  side,  who  were  Lucila’s 
brothers,  remained  quite  quiet ; but  when  Fadrique  began  to  get  the 
better  of  their  brother  in-law  they  appeared  as  if  they  intended  to 
take  part  in  the  fight.  Heimbert  therefore  made  his  mighty  sword 
gleam  in  the  moonlight,  and  said,  “ Dear  sirs,  you  will  not  surely 
oblige  me  to  execute  that  of  which  I previously  assured  you  ? I pray 
you  not  to  compel  me  to  do  so  ; but  if  it  cannot  be  otherwise,  I must 
honorably  keep  my  word,  you  may  rely  upon  it.”  The  two  young 
men  remained  from  that  time  motionless,  surprised  both  at  the  deci- 
sion and  at  the  true-hearted  friendliness  that  lay  in  Heimbert’s  words. 

Meanwhile  Don  Fadrique,  although  pressing  hard  upon  his  adver- 
sary, had  generously  avoided  wounding  him,  and  when  at  last  by  a 
dexterous  movement  he  wrested  his  sword  from  him,  Lucila’s  hus- 
band, surprised  at  the  unexpected  advantage,  and  in  alarm  at  being 
thus  disarmed,  retreated  a few  steps.  But  Fadrique  threw  the 
weapon  adroitly  into  the  air,  and  catching  it  again  near  the  point  of 
the  blade,  he  said,  as  he  gracefully  presented  the  hilt  to  his  opponent, 
“ Take  it,  Seiior,  and  I hope  our  affair  of  honor  is  now  settled,  as  you 
will  grant  under  these  circumstances  that  I am  only  here  to  show 
that  I fear  no  sword- thrust  in  the  world.  The  bell  of  the  old  cathe- 
dral is  now  ringing  twelve  o’clock,  and  I give  you  my  word  of  honor 
as  a knight  and  a soldier  that  neither  is  Dona  Lucila  pleased  with 
my  attentions  nor  am  I pleased  with  paying  them  ; from  henceforth, 
and  were  I to  remain  a hundred  years  in  Malaga,  I would  not  con- 
tinue to  serenade  her  in  this  spot.  So  proceed  on  your  journey,  and 
God  be  with  you.”  He  then  once  more  greeted  his  conquered  adver- 
sary with  serious  and  solemn  courtesy,  and  withdrew.  Heimbert 
followed  him,  after  having  cordially  shaken  hands  with  the  two 
youths,  saying,  “ No,  dear  young  sirs,  do  not  let  it  ever  again  enter 
your  heads  to  interfere  in  any  honorable  contest.  Do  you  under- 
stand me  ?” 

He  soon  overtook  his  companion,  and  walked  on  by  his  side  so  full 
of  ardent  expectation,  and  with  his  heart  beating  so  joyfully  and  yet 
so  painfully,  that  he  could  not  utter  a single  word.  Don  Fadrique 
Mendez  was  also  silent  ; it  was  not  till  Heimbert  paused  before  an 
ornamented  garden-gate,  and  pointed  cheerfully  to  the  pomegranate 
boughs  richly  laden  with  fruits  which  overhung  it,  saying,  “ This  is 
the  place,  dear  comrade,”  that  the  Spaniard  appeared  as  if  about  to 
ask  a question,  but  turning  quickly  round  he  merely  said,  “ I am 
pledged  to  guard  this  entrance  for  you  till  dawn.  You  have  my 
word  of  honor  for  it.”  So  saying  he  began  walking  to  and  fro  be- 
fore the  gate,  with  drawn  sword,  like  a sentinel,  and  Heimbert,  trem- 
bling with  joy,  glided  within  the  gloomy  and  aromatic  shrubberies. 


THE  TWO  CAPTAIHS. 


67 


CHAPTER  III. 

He  was  not  long  in  seeking  the  bright  star,  which  he  indeed  felt 
was  destined  henceforth  to  guide  the  course  of  his  whole  life.  The 
delicate  form  approached  him  not  far  from  the  entrance ; weeping 
softly,  it  seemed  to  him,  in  the  light  of  the  full  moon  which  was  just 
rising,  and  yet  smiling  with  such  infinite  grace,  that  her  tears  were 
rather  like  a pearly  ornament  than  a veil  of  sorrow.  In  deep  and  in- 
finite joy  and  sorrow  the  two  lovers  wandered  silently  together 
through  the  flowery  groves ; now  and  then  a branch  waving  in  the 
night-air  would  touch  the  guitar  on  the  lady’s  arm,  and  it  would 
breathe  forth  a slight  murmur  which  blended  with  the  song  of  the 
nightingale,  or  the  delicate  fingers  of  the  girl  would  tremble  over  the 
strings  and  awaken  a few  scattered  chords,  while  the  shooting  stars 
seemed  as  if  following  the  tones  of  the  instrument  as  they  died  away. 
Oh,  truly  happy  was  this  night  both  to  the  youth  and  the  maiden, 
for  no  rash  wish  or  impure  desire  passed  even  fleetingly  across  their 
minds.  They  walked  on  side  by  side,  happy  that  Providence  had 
allowed  them  this  delight,  and  so  little  desiring  any  other  blessing 
that  even  the  transitoriness  of  that  they  were  now  enjoying  floated 
away  into  the  background  of  their  thoughts. 

In  the  middle  of  the  beautiful  garden  there  was  a large  open  lawn, 
ornamented  with  statues  and  surrounding  a beautiful  and  splashing 
fountain.  The  two  lovers  sat  down  on  its  brink,  now  gazing  at  the 
waters  sparkling  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  delighting  in  the  contem- 
plation of  each  other’s  beauty.  The  maiden  touched  her  guitar,  and 
Heimbert,  impelled  by  a feeling  scarcely  intelligible  to  himself,  sang 
the  following  words  to  it  : 

“ There  is  a sweet  life  linked  with  mine, 

But  I cannot  tell  its  name  • 

Oh,  would  it  but  to  me  consign 
The  secret  of  that  life  divine, 

That  so  my  lips  in  whispers  sweet 
And  gentle  songs  might  e’en  repeat 
All  that  my  heart  would  fain  proclaim  !” 

He  suddenly  paused,  and  blushed  deeply,  fearing  he  had  been  too 
bold.  The  lady  blushed  also,  touched  her  guitar-strings  with  a half- 
abstracted  air,  and  at  last  sang  as  if  dreamily  : 

“ By  the  spring  where  moonlight’s  gleams 
O’er  the  sparkling  waters  pass, 

Who  is  sitting  by  the  youth, 

Singing  on  the  soft  green  grass  ? 

Shall  the  maiden  tell  her  name, 

When  though  all  unknown  it  be, 

Her  heart  is  glowing  with  her  shame. 

And  her  cheeks  burn  anxiously, 

First,  let  the  youthful  knight  be  named. 

’Tis  he  that  on  that  glorious  day 
Fought  in  Castilia’s  proud  array  ; 


68 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


’Tis  he  the  youth  of  sixteen  years, 

At  Pavia,  who  his  fortunes  tried. 

The  Frenchman’s  fear,  the  Spaniard’s  prid«. 

Heimbert  is  the  hero’s  name  ; 

Victorious  in  many  a fight ! 

And  beside  the  valiant  knight, 

Sitting  on  the  soft  green  grass, 

Though  her  name  her  lips  shall  pass, 

Dona  Clara  feels  no  shame.” 

“Oh!”  said  Heimbert,  blushing  from  another  cause  than  before, 
“ oh,  Dona  Clara,  that  affair  at  Pavia  was  nothing  but  a merry  and 
victorious  tournament,  and  even  if  occasionally  since  then  I have  been 
engaged  in  a tougher  contest,  how  have  I ever  merited  as  a reward 
the  overwhelming  bliss  1 am  now  enjoying  ! Now  I know  what 
your  name  is,  and  I may  in  future  address  you  by  it,  my  angelic 
Doha  Clara,  my  blessed  and  beautiful  Doha  Clara  ! But  tell  me 
now,  who  has  given  you  such  a favorable  report  of  my  achieve- 
ments, that  I may  ever  regard  him  with  grateful  affection?” 

“Does  the  noble  Heimbert  of  Waldhausen  suppose,”  rejoined 
Clara,  “ that  the  noble  houses  of  Spain  had  none  of  their  sons  where 
he  stood  in  the  battle  ? You  must  have  surely  seen  them  fighting  by 
your  side,  and  must  I not  have  heard  of  your  glories  through  the  lips 
of  my  own  people  ?” 

The  silvery  tones  of  a little  bell  sounded  just  then  from  a neigh- 
boring palace,  and  Clara  whispered,  “ It  is  time  to  part.  Adieu,  my 
hero!”  And  she  smiled  on  the  youth  through  her  gushing  tears, 
and  bent  toward  him,  and  he  almost  fancied  he  felt  a sweet  kiss 
breathed  from  her  lips.  When  he  fully  recovered  himself  Clara  had 
disappeared,  the  morning  clouds  were  beginning  to  wear  the  rosy 
hue  of  dawn,  and  Heimbert,  with  a heaven  of  love’s  proud  happiness 
in  his  heart,  returned  to  his  watchful  friend  at  the  garden  gate. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

“Halt!”  exclaimed  Fadrique,  as  Heimbert  appeared  from  the 
garden,  holding  his  drawn  sword  toward  him  ready  for  attack. 
“ Stop,  you  are  mistaken,  my  good  comrade,  ” said  the  German,  smil- 
ing ; “ it  is  I whom  you  see  before  you.”  “ Do  not  imagine,  Knight 
Heimbert  of  Waldhausen,”  said  Fadrique,  “ that  I mistake  you. 
But  my  promise  is  discharged,  my  hour  of  guard  has  been  honorably 
kept,  and  now  I beg  you  without  further  delay  to  prepare  yourself, 
and  fight  for  your  life  until  heart’s  blood  has  ceased  to  flow  through 
these  veins.”  “Good  heavens!”  sighed  Heimbert,  “I  have  often 
heard  that  in  these  southern  lands  there  are  witches,  who  deprive 
people  of  their  senses  by  magic  arts  and  incantations.  But  I have 
never  experienced  anything  of  the  sort  until  to-day.  Compose  your- 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


60 


self,  my  dear  good  comrade,  and  go  with  me  back  to  the  shore.” 
Fadrique  laughed  fiercely,  and  answered,  “ Set  aside  your  silly  delu- 
sion, and  if  you  must  have  everything  explained  to  you,  word  by 
word,  in  order  to  understand  it,  know  then  that  the  lady  whom  you 
came  to  meet  in  the  shrubbery  of  this  my  garden  is  Dona  Clara  Men- 
dez, my  only  sister.  Quick,  therefore,  and  without  further  pream- 
ble, draw  !”  “ God  forbid  !”  exclaimed  the  German,  not  touching 

his  weapon.  ‘‘You  shall  be  my  brother-in-law,  Fadrique,  and  not 
my  murderer,  and  still  less  will  I be  yours.  ’ ’ Fadrique  only  shook 
his  head  indignantly,  and  advanced  toward  his  comrade  with  meas- 
ured steps  for  an  encounter.  Heimbert,  however,  still  remained  im- 
movable, and  said,  “No,  Fadrique,  I cannot  now  or  ever  do  you 
harm.  For  besides  the  love  I bear  your  sister,  it  must  certainly  have 
been  you  who  has  spoken  to  her  so  honorably  of  my  military  expedi- 
tions in  Italy.  ” “ When  I did  so,”  replied  Fadrique  in  a fury,  “ I 

was  a fool.  But,  dallying  coward,  out  with  your  sword,  or—” 

Before  Fadrique  had  finished  speaking,  Heimbert,  burning  with 
indignation,  exclaimed,  “ The  devil  himself  could  not  bear  that !” 
and  drawing  his  sword  from  the  scabbard,  the  two  young  captains 
rushed  fiercely  and  resolutely  to  the  attack. 

Different  indeed  was  this  contest  to  that  previously  fought  by  Fa- 
drique with  Lucila’s  husband.  The  tw~o  young  soldiers  well  under- 
stood their  weapons,  and  strove  with  each  other  with  equal  boldness, 
their  swords  flashing  like  rays  of  light  as  now  this  one  now  that  one 
hurled  a lightning  thrust  at  his  adversary,  which  was  with  similar 
speed  and  dexterity  turned  aside.  Firmly  they  pressed  the  left 
foot,  as  if  rooted  in  the  ground,  while  the  right  advanced  to  the 
bold  onset  and  then  again  they  quickly  retired  to  the  safer  atti- 
tude of  defence.  From  the  self-possession  and  the  quiet  unremitting 
anger  with  which  both  the  combatants  fought,  it  was  evident  that 
one  of  the  two  would  find  his  grave  under  the  overhanging  branches 
of  the  orange-tree,  which  were  now  tinged  with  the  red  glow  of 
morning,  and  this  would  undoubtedly  have  been  the  case  had  not 
the  report  of  a cannon  from  the  harbor  sounded  through  the  silence 
of  the  twilight. 

The  combatants  paused,  as  if  at  some  word  of  command  to  be 
obeyed  by  both,  and  listened,  counting  to  themselves  ; then,  as  each 
uttered  the  number  thirty,  a second  gun  was  heard.  “ It  is  the  sig- 
nal for  immediate  embarkation,  Senor,”  said  Don  Fadrique  ; “we 
are  now  in  the  emperor’s  service,  and  all  dispute  ceases  which  is  not 
against  the  foes  of  Charles  the  Fifth.”  “ Right,”  replied  Heimbert ; 
“ but  when  there  is  an  end  of  Tunis  and  the  whole  war,  I shall  de- 
mand satisfaction  for  that  ‘ dallying  coward.’  ” “ And  I for  that  in- 

tercourse with  my  sister,”  said  Fadrique.  “Certainly,”  rejoined 
the  other ; and,  so  saying,  the  two  captains  hurried  down  to  the 
strand  and  arranged  the  embarkation  of  their  troops  ; while  the  sun, 
rising  over  the  sea,  shone  upon  them  both  in  the  same  vessel. 

M.  C— 16 


70 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  voyagers  had  for  some  time  to  battle  with  contrary  winds,  and 
when  at  length  they  came  in  sight  of  the  coasts  of  Barbary  the 
darkness  of  evening  had  closed  so  deepty  over  the  sea  that  no  pilot 
in  the  little  squadron  ventured  to  ride  at  anchor  on  the  shallow  shore. 
They  cruised  about  on  the  calm  waters,  waiting  for  the  morning  ; 
and  the  soldiers,  full  of  laudable  ambition  for  combat,  stood  impa- 
tiently in  crowds  on  the  deck,  straining  their  longing  eyes  to  see  the 
theatre  of  their  future  deeds. 

Meanwhile  the  heavy  firing  of  besiegers  and  besieged  thundered 
unceasingly  from  the  fortress  of  Goletta,  and  as  the  night  darkened 
the  scene  with  massy  clouds  the  flames  of  burning  fragments  became 
more  visible,  and  the  fiery  course  of  the  red  bullets  was  perceptible 
as  they  crossed  each  other  in  their  path,  while  their  effects  in  fire 
and  devastation  were  fearful  to  behold.  It  was  evident  that  the 
Mussulmans  had  been  attempting  a sally,  for  a sharp  fire  of  musketry 
burst  forth  suddenty  amid  the  roaring  of  the  cannon.  The  fight  was 
approaching  the  trenches  of  the  Christians,  and  on  board  the  vessels  • 
none  were  agreed  whether  the  besiegers  were  in  danger  or  not.  At 
length  they  saw  that  the  Turks  were  driven  back  into  the  fortress  ; 
the  Christian  army  pursued  them,  and  a shout  was  heard  from  the 
Spanish  camp  as  of  one  loud  Victory  ! and  the  cry,  Goletta  was 
taken  ! 

How  the  troops  on  board  the  vessels — consisting  of  young  and 
courage-tried  men — burned  with  ardor  and  their  hearts  beat  at  the 
glorious  spectacle,  need  not  be  detailed  to  those  who  carry  a brave 
heart  within  their  own  bosoms,  and  to  all  others  any  description 
would  be  lost.  Heimbert  and  Fadrique  stood  close  to  each  other. 

“ I do  not  know,”  said  the  latter,  speaking  to  himself,  “ but  I feel  as 
if  to-morrow  I must  plant  my  standard  upon  yonder  height  which  is 
now  lighted  up  with  the  red  glow  of  the  bullets  and  burning  flames 
in  Goletta.”  “ That  is  just  what  I feel  !”  said  Heimbert.  The  two 
angry  captains  then  relapsed  into  silence  and  turned  indignantly 
away. 

The  longed-for  morning  at  length  dawned,  the  vessels  approached 
the  shore,  and  the  landing  of  the  troops  began,  while  an  officer  was 
at  once  dispatched  to  the  camp  to  announce  the  arrival  of  the  rein- 
forcements to  the  mighty  general  Alba.  The  soldiers  were  hastily 
ranged  on  the  beach,  they  put  themselves  and  their  weapons  in 
order,  and  were  soon  standing  in  battle  array,  ready  for  their  great 
leader.  Clouds  of  dust  rose  in  the  gray  twilight,  the  returning  offi- 
cer announced  the  approach  of  the  general,  and  as  Alba  signifies 
“ morning”  in  the  Castilian  tongue,  the  Spaniards  raised  a shout  of 
rejoicing  at  the  coincidence,  as  at  some  favorable  omen,  for  as  the 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS.  71 

knightly  train  approached  the  first  beams  of  the  rising  sun  became 
visible. 

The  grave  and  haggard  form  of  the  general  was  seen  mounted  on  a 
tall  Andalusian  charger  of  the  deepest  black.  Having  galloped  once 
up  and  down  the  lines,  he  stopped  his  powerful  horse  in  the  middle, 
and  looking  along  the  ranks  with  an  air  of  grave  satisfaction,  he  said, 
“You  pass  muster  well.  That  is  well.  I like  it  to  be  so.  It  is 
plain  to  see  that  you  are  tried  soldiers,  in  spite  of  your  youth.  We 
will  first  hold  a review,  and  then  I will  lead  you  to  something  more 
agreeable.” 

So  saying,  he  dismounted,  and  walking  toward  the  right  wing  he 
began  to  inspect  one  troop  after  another  in  the  closest  manner,  with 
the  captain  of  each  company  at  his  side,  that  he  might  receive  from 
him  accurate  account  upon  the  minutest  particulars.  Sometimes  a 
cannon-ball  from  the  fortress  would  whizz  over  the  heads  of  the 
men  ; then  Alba  would  stand  still  and  cast  a keen  glance  over  the 
soldiers  before  him.  But  when  he  saw  that  not  an  eyelash  moved,  a 
smile  of  satisfaction  passed  over  his  severe,  pale  face. 

When  he  had  inspected  both  divisions  he  again  mounted  his 
horse  and  once  more  galloped  into  the  middle.  Then,  stroking  his 
long  beard,  he  said,  “You  are  in  good  order,  soldiers,  and  therefore 
you  shall  take  your  part  in  this  glorious  day,  which  is  just  dawning 
for  our  whole  Christian  armada.  We  will  attack  Barbarossa,  sol 
diers.  Do  you  not  already  hear  the  drums  and  fifes  in  the  camp? 
Do  you  see  him  advancing  yonder  to  meet  the  emperor  ? That  side 
of  his  position  is  assigned  to  you  !” 

“ Yivat  Carolus  Quintus  !”  resounded  through  the  ranks. 

Alba  beckoned  the  captains  to  him,  and  assigned  to  each  his  duty. 
He  usually  mingled  German  and  Spanish  troops  together,  in  order  to 
stimulate  the  courage  of  the  combatants  still  higher  by  emulation. 
So  it  happened  even  now  that  Heimbert  and  Fadrique  were  com- 
manded to  storm  the  very  same  height,  which,  now  gleaming  with 
the  morning  light,  they  at  once  recognized  as  that  which  had  shone 
out  so  fiercely  and  full  of  promise  the  night  before. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Thrice  had  Fadrique  and  Heimbert  almost  forced  their  way  to  a 
rampart  in  the  fortifications,  and  thrice  had  they  been  repulsed  with 
their  men  into  the  valley  below  by  the  fierce  opposition  of  the  Turks. 
The  Mussulmans  shouted  after  the  retreating  foe,  clashed  then' 
weapons  with  the  triumph  of  victory,  and  with  a scornful  laugh 
asked  whether  they  would  not  come  up  again  to  give  heart  and  brain 
to  the  scimitar  and  their  limbs  to  the  falling  beams  of  wood.  The 


TZ 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


two  captains,  gnashing  their  teeth  with  fury,  arranged  their  raiiR* 
anew  ; for  after  three  vain  assaults  they  had  to  move  closer  together 
to  fill  the  places  of  the  slain  and  the  mortally  wounded.  Meanwhile 
a murmur  ran  through  the  Christian  army  that  a witch  was  fighting 
among  their  foes  and  helping  them  to  conquer. 

Duke  Alba  rode  to  the  point  of  attack,  and  looked  scrutiniziugly 
at  the  breach  they  had  made.  “ Not  yet  broken  through  the  enemy 
here  !”  said  he,  shaking  his  head.  “ I am  surprised.  From  two 
such  youths,  and  such  troops,  I should  have  expected  it.”  “ Do  you 
hear  that  ? Do  you  hear  that  ?”  exclaimed  the  two  captains,  as  they 
paced  along  their  lines  repeating  the  general’s  words.  The  soldiers 
shouted  loudly,  and  demanded  to  be  once  more  led  against  the  ene- 
my ; even  those  who  were  mortally  wounded  shouted,  with  a last 
effort,  “ Forward,  comrades  !”  The  great  Alba  at  once  sprang  like 
an  arrow  from  his  horse,  wrested  a partisan  from  the  stiff  hand  of 
one  of  the  slain,  and  standing  in  front  of  the  two  companies  he  cried, 
“ I will  take  part  in  your  glory.  In  the  name  of  God  and  of  the 
blessed  Virgin,  forward,  my  children  !” 

And  joyfully  they  rushed  up  the  hill,  every  heart  beating  with  con- 
fidence, while  the  war-cry  was  raised  triumphantly  ; some  even  began 
already  to  shout  “ Victory  ! victory  !”  and  the  Mussulmans  paused 
and  wavered.  Suddenly,  like  the  vision  of  an  avenging  angel,  a 
maiden,  dressed  in  purple  garments  embroidered  with  gold,  appeared 
in  the  Turkish  ranks,  and  those  who  were  terrified  before  again 
shouted  “ Allah  !”  calling  at  the  same  time,  “ Zelinda,  Zelinda  !” 
The  maiden,  however,  drew  a small  box  from  under  her  arm,  and 
opening  it  she  breathed  into  it  and  hurled  it  down  among  the  Chris- 
tian troops.  And  forth  from  the  fatal  chest  there  burst  a whole  fire 
of  rockets,  grenades,  and  other  fearful  messengers  of  death.  The 
startled  soldiers  paused  in  their  assault.  “ Forward  !”  cried  Alba. 
“ Forward  !”  cried  the  two  captains  ; but  a flaming  arrow  just  then 
fastened  on  the  duke’s  plumed  hat  and  hissed  and  crackled  round 
his  head,  so  that  the  general  fell  fainting  down  the  height.  Then  the 
German  and  Spanish  infantry  fled  uncontrollably  from  the  fearful 
ascent.  Again  the  storm  had  been  repulsed.  The  Mussulmans 
shouted,  and  like  a fatal  star  Zelinda’s  beauty  shone  in  the  midst  of 
the  flying  troops. 

When  Alba  opened  his  eyes,  Heimbert  was  standing  over  him, 
with  his  mantle,  arm,  and  face  scorched  with  the  fire,  which  he  had 
not  only  just  extinguished  on  his  general’s  head,  but  by  throwing 
himself  over  him  he  had  saved  him  from  a second  body  of  flame 
rolled  down  the  height  in  the  same  direction.  The  duke  was  thank- 
ing his  youthful  deliverer  when  some  soldiers  came  up,  looking  for 
him,  to  apprise  him  that  the  Saracen  power  was  beginning  an  attack 
on  the  opposite  wing  of  the  army.  Without  losing  a word  Alba 
threw  himself  on  the  first  horse  brought  him  and  galloped  away  to 
the  spot  where  the  most  threatening  danger  summoned  him. 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


73 


Fadrique  stood  with  his  glowing  eye  fixed  on  the  rampart,  where 
the  brilliant  form  of  Zelinda  might  be  seen,  with  a two-edged  spear, 
ready  to  be  hurled,  uplifted  by  her  snow-white  arm,  and  raising  her 
voice,  now  in  encouraging  tones  to  the  Mussulmans  in  Arabic,  and 
again  speaking  scornfully  to  the  Christians  in  Spanish.  At  last  Fa- 
drique exclaimed,  “ Oh,  foolish  being  ! she  thinks  to  daunt  me,  and 
yet  she  places  herself  before  me,  an  alluring  and  irresistible  war- 
prize  !” 

And  as  if  magic  wings  had  sprung  from  his  shoulders,  he  began  to 
fly  up  the  height  with  such  rapidit}"  that  Alba’s  violent  descent 
seemed  but  a lazy  snail’s  pace.  Before  any  one  was  aware,  he  was 
already  on  the  height,  and  wresting  spear  and  shield  from  the 
maiden,  he  had  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  was  attempting  to  bear 
her  away,  while  Zelinda  in  anxious  despair  clung  to  the  palisade  with 
both  her  hands.  Her  cry  for  help  was  unavailing,  partly  because  the 
Turks  imagined  that  the  magic  power  of  the  maiden  was  annihilated 
by  the  almost  equally  wondrous  deed  of  the  youth,  and  partly  also 
because  the  faithful  Heimbert,  quickly  perceiving  his  comrade’s  dar- 
ing feat,  had  led  both  troops  to  a renewed  attack,  and  now  stood  by 
his  side  on  the  height,  fighting  hand  to  hand  with  the  defenders. 
This  time  the  fury  of  the  Mussulmans,  weakened  as  they  were  by 
superstition  and  surprise,  could  avail  nothing  against  the  heroic  ad- 
vance of  the  Christian  soldiers.  The  Spaniards  and  Germans 
speedily  broke  through  the  enemy,  assisted  by  the  watchful  squad- 
rons of  their  army.  The  Mohammedans  fled  with  frightful  howling,  the 
battle  with  its  stream  of  victory  rolled  ever  on,  and  the  banner  of  the 
holy  German  empire  and  that  of  the  royal  house  of  Castile  waved 
victorious  over  the  glorious  battle-field  before  the  walls  of  Tunis. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  conquering  and  the  conquered,  Zelinda 
had  wrested  herself  from  Fadrique’s  arms  and  had  fled  from  him 
with  such  swiftuess  that,  however  much  love  and  desire  might  have 
given  wings  to  his  pursuit,  she  was  soon  out  of  sight  in  a spot  so 
well  known  to  her.  All  the  more  vehement  was  the  fury  of  the  ex- 
cited Spaniard  against  the  infidel  foe.  Wherever  a little  host  made  a 
fresh  stand  to  oppose  the  Christians,  he  would  hasten  forward  with 
the  troops,  who  ranged  themselves  round  him,  resistless  as  he  was,  as 
round  a banner  of  victory,  while  Heimbert  ever  remained  at  his  side 
like  a faithful  shield,  guarding  off  many  a danger  to  which  the 
youth,  intoxicated  with  rage  and  success,  exposed  himself  without 
consideration.  The  following  day  they  heard  of  Barbarossa’s  flight 
from  the  city,  and  the  victorious  troops  advanced  without  resistance 


74 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


through  the  gates  of  Tunis.  Fadrique’s  and  Heimbert ’s  companies 
were  always  together.  . 

Thick  clouds  of  smoke  began  to  curl  through  the  streets  ; the  sol- 
diers were  obliged  to  shake  off  the  glowing  and  dusty  flakes  from 
their  mantles  and  richly-plumed  helmets,  where  they  often  rested 
smouldering.  “ I trust  the  enemy  in  his  despair  has  not  set  fire  to 
some  magazine  full  of  powder  !”  exclaimed  the  thoughtful  Ileim- 
bert  ; and  Fadrique,  showing  by  a sign  that  he  agreed  with  his  sur- 
mise, hastened  on  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  smoke  proceeded,  the 
troops  courageously  pressing  after  him. 

The  sudden  turn  of  a street  brought  them  in  view  of  a magnificent 
palace,  from  the  beautifully  ornamented  windows  of  which  the 
flames  were  emerging,  looking  like  torches  of  death  in  their  fitful 
glow,  and  lighting  up  the  splendid  building  in  the  hour  of  its  ruin  in 
the  grandest  manner,  now  illuminating  this  and  now  that  part  of  the 
gigantic  structure,  and  then  again  relapsing  into  a fearful  darkness  of 
smoke  and  vapor. 

And  like  some  faultless  statue,  the  ornament  of  the  whole  edifice, 
there  stood  Zelinda  upon  a high  and  giddy  projection,  while  the 
tongues  of  flame  wreathed  around  her  from  below,  calling  to  her 
companions  in  the  faith  to  help  her  in  saving  the  wisdom  of  centu- 
ries which  was  preserved  in  this  building.  The  projection  on  which 
she  stood  began  to  totter  from  the  fervent  heat  raging  beneath  it,  and 
a few  stones  gave  way  ; Fadrique  called  with  a voice  full  of  anguish 
to  the  endangered  lady,  and  scarcely  had  she  withdrawn  her  foot 
from  the  spot,  when  the  stone  on  which  she  had  been  standing  broke 
away  and  came  rattling  down  on  the  pavement.  Zelinda  disap- 
peared within  the  burning  palace,  and  Fadrique  rushed  up  its  marble 
staircase,  Heimbert,  his  faithful  companion,  following  him. 

Their  hasty  steps  carried  them  through  lofty  resounding  halls  ; the 
architecture  over  their  heads  was  a maze  of  high  arches,  and  one 
chamber  led  into  another  almost  like  a labyrinth.  The  walls  dis- 
played on  all  sides  magnificent  shelves,  in  which  were  to  be  seen 
stored  rolls  of  parchment,  papyrus,  and  palm-leaf,  partly  inscribed 
with  the  characters  of  long-vanished  centuries,  and  which  were  now 
to  perish  themselves.  For  the  flames  were  already  crackling  among 
them  and  stretching  their  serpent-like  and  fiery  heads  from  one  case 
of  treasures  to  another  ; while  some  Spanish  soldiers,  barbarous  in 
their  fury,  and  hoping  for  plunder,  and  finding  nothing  but  inscribed 
rolls  within  the  gorgeous  building,  passed  from  disappointment  to 
rage,  and  aided  the  flames  ; the  more  so  as  they  regarded  the  inscrip- 
tions as  the  work  of  evil  magicians.  Fadrique  flew  as  in  a dream 
through  the  strange  half-consumed  halls,  ever  calling  Zelinda  ! think- 
ing and  regarding  nothing  but  her  enchanting  beauty.  Long  did 
Heimbert  remain  at  his  side,  until  at  length  they  both  reached  a 
cedar  staircase  leading  to  an  upper  story  ; here  Fadrique  paused  to 
listen,  and  exclaiming,  “ She  is  speaking  up  there  ! she  is  speaking 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


75 


loud  ! she  needs  my  help  !”  he  dashed  up  the  already  burning  steps. 
Heimbert  hesitated  a moment ; he  saw  the  staircase  already  totter- 
ing, and  he  thought  to  give  a warning  cry  to  his  companion  ; but  at 
the  same  moment  the  light  ornamental  ascent  gave  way  and  burst 
into  flames.  He  could  just  see  Fadrique  clinging  above  to  a brass 
grating  and  swinging  himself  up  to  it,  but  all  means  of  following 
him  were  destroyed.  Quickly  recollecting  himself,  Heimbert  lost  no 
time  in  idly  gazing,  but  hastened  through  the  adjacent  halls  in  search  of 
another  flight  of  steps  which  would  lead  him  to  his  vanished  friend. 

Meanwhile  Fadrique,  following  the  enchanting  voice,  had  reached 
a gallery  in  the  midst  of  which,  the  floor  having  fallen  in,  there  was 
a fearful  abyss  of  flames,  though  the  pillars  on  each  side  were  still 
standing.  Opposite  to  him  the  youth  perceived  the  longed-for 
maiden,  clinging  with  one  hand  to  a pillar,  while  with  the  other  she 
was  threatening  back  some  Spanish  soldiers,  who  seemed  ready  at 
any  moment  to  seize  her,  and  her  delicate  foot  was  already  hovering 
over  the  edge  of  the  glowing  ruins.  For  Fadrique  to  go  to  her  was 
impossible  ; the  breadth  of  the  opening  rendered  even  a desperate 
leap  unavailing.  Trembling  lest  his  call  might  make  the  maiden 
precipitate  herself  into  the  abyss,  either  in  terror  or  despairing 
anger,  he  only  softly  raised  his  voice  and  whispered  as  with  a breath 
over  the  flaming  gulf,  “ Oh,  Zelinda,  Zelinda  ! do  not  give  way  to 
such  frightful  thoughts  ! Your  preserver  is  here  !”  The  maiden 
turned  her  queenly  head,  and  when  Fadrique  saw  her  calm  and  com- 
posed demeanor,  he  cried  to  the  soldiers  on  the  other  side,  with  all 
the  thunder  of  his  warrior’s  voice,  “ Back,  ye  insolent  plunderers  ! 
Whoever  advances  but  one  step  to  the  lady  shall  feel  the  vengeance 
of  my  arm  !”  They  started  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  withdrawing, 
when  one  of  their  number  said,  “ The  knight  cannot  touch  us,  the 
gulf  between  us  is  too  broad  for  that.  And  as  for  the  lady’s  throw- 
ing herself  down — it  almost  looks  as  if  the  young  knight  were  her 
lover,  and  whoever  has  a lover  is  not  likely  to  be  so  hasty  about 
throwing  herself  down.”  All  laughed  at  this  and  again  advanced. 
Zelinda  tottered  at  the  edge  of  the  abyss.  But  with  the  courage  of  a 
lion  Fadrique  had  torn  his  target  from  his  arm,  and  hurling  it  with 
his  right  hand  he  flung  it  at  the  soldiers  with  such  a sure  aim  that 
the  rash  leader,  struck  on  the  head,  fell  senseless  to  the  ground.  The 
rest  again  stood  still.  “ Away  with  you  !”  cried  Fadrique  authori- 
tatively, “ or  my  dagger  shall  strike  the  next  as  surely,  and  then  I 
swear  I will  never  rest  till  I have  found  out  your  whole  gang  and  ap- 
peased my  rage.”  The  dagger  gleamed  in  the  youth’s  hand,  but  yet 
more  fearfully  gleamed  the  fury  in  his  eyes,  and  the  soldiers  fled. 
Then  Zelinda  bowed  gratefully  to  her  preserver,  took  up  a roll  of 
palm-leaves  which  lay  at  her  feet,  and  which  must  have  previously 
slipped  from  her  hand,  and  then  vanished  hastily  through  a side-door 
of  the  gallery.  Henceforth  Fadrique  sought  her  in  vain  in  the  burn- 
ing palace. 


76 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  great  Alba  held  a council  with  his  chief  officers  in  an  open 
p'ace  in  the  middle  of  the  conquered  city,  and,  by  means  of  inter- 
preters, sent  question  after  question  to  the  Turkish  prisoners  as  to 
i lie  fate  of  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  been  seen  animating  them 
mi  Ihe  ramparts,  and  who  was  certainly  the  most  exquisite  enchant- 
ress that  had  ever  visited  the  earth.  Nothing  very  distinct  was  to  be 
gaiued  from  the  answers,  for  although  the  interrogated  all  knew  of 
ihe  beautiful  Zelinda  as  a noble  lady  versed  in  magic  lore,  and  ac- 
knowledged by  the  whole  people,  they  wTere  utterly  unable  to  state 
from  whence  she  had  come  to  Tunis  and  whither  she  had  now  fled. 
When  at  last  they  began  to  threaten  the  prisoners  as  obstinate,  an  old 
Dervish,  hitherto  unnoticed,  pressed  forward  and  said,  with  a gloomy 
smile,  “ Whoever  has  a desire  to  seek  the  lady  may  set  out  when  he 
chooses ; I will  conceal  nothing  from  him  of  what  I know  of  her 
direction,  and  I know  something.  But  l must  first  of  all  receive  the 
promise  that  I shall  not  be  compelled  to  accompany  as  guide.  My 
lips  otherwise  will  remain  sealed  forever,  and  you  may  do  with 
me  as  you  will.,, 

He  looked  like  one  who  intended  to  keep  his  word,  and  Alba, 
pleased  with  the  firmness  of  the  man,  which  harmonized  well  with 
liis  own  mind,  gave  him  the  desired  assurance,  and  the  Dervish  be- 
gan his  relation.  He  was  once,  he  said,  wandering  in  the  almost  in- 
finite desert  of  Sahara,  impelled  perhaps  by  rash  curiosity,  perhaps 
by  higher  motives  ; he  had  lost  his  way  there,  and  had  at  last,  wea- 
ried to  death,  reached  one  of  those  fertile  islands  of  that  sea  of  sand 
which  .are  called  oases.  Then  followed,  sparkling  with  oriental 
vivacity,  a description  of  the  wonderful  things  seen  there,  now  filling 
the  hearts  of  his  hearers  with  sweet  longing,  and  then  again  making 
their  hair  stand  on  end  with  horror,  though  from  the  strange  pro- 
nunciation of  the  speaker  and  the  flowing  rapidity  of  his  words  the 
half  was  scarcely  understood.  The  end  of  all  this  at  length  was 
that  Zelinda  dwelt  on  that  oasis,  in  the  midst  of  the  pathless  sand- 
plains  of  the  desert,  surrounded  by  magic  horrors  ; and  also,  as  the 
Dervish  knew  for  certain,  that  she  had  left  about  half  an  hour  ago  on 
her  way  thither.  The  almost  contemptuous  words  with  which  he  con- 
cluded his  narration  plainly  showed  that  he  desired  nothing  more 
earnestly  than  to  seduce  some  Christians  to  undertake  a journey 
which  must  terminate  inevitably  in  their  destruction.  At  the 
same  time  he  added  a solemn  oath  that  everything  was  truly  as  he 
h;d  stated  it,  and  he  did  this  in  a firm  and  grave  manner,  as  a man 
who  knows  that  he  is  speaking  the  most  indubitable  truth.  Sur- 
prised and  thoughtful,  the  circle  of  officers  held  their  council  round 
him. 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


77 


Then  Heimbert  stepped  forward  with  an  air  as  if  of  request ; he 
had  just  received  a summons  to  leave  the  burning  palace,  where  he 
had  been  seeking  his  friend,  and  had  been  appointed  to  the  place  of 
council  because  it  was  necessary  to  arrange  the  troops  here  in  readi- 
ness for  any  possible  rising  in  the  conquered  city.  “ What  do  you 
wish,  my  young  hero  ?’  ’ said  Alba,  recognizing  him  as  he  appeared. 
“ I know  your  smiling,  blooming  countenance  well.  You  were  but 
lately  sheltering  me  like  a protecting  angel.  I am  so  sure  that  you 
make  no  request  but  what  is  honorable  and  knightly  that  anything 
you  may  possibly  desire  is  granted  beforehand.  ” “ My  great  DuKe,  ’ ’ 

replied  Heimbert,  with  cheeks  glowing  with  pleasure,  “if  I may 
then  venture  to  ask  a favor,  will  you  grant  me  permission  to  follow 
the  beautiful  Zelinda  at  once  in  the  direction  which  this  wonderful 
Dervish  has  pointed  out  ?”  The  great  general  bowed  in  assent,  and 
added,  “ So  noble  an  adventure  could  not  be  consigned  to  a more 
noble  knight  !” 

“ I do  not  know  that  !”  said  an  angry  voice  from  the  throng. 
“ But  well  do  I know  that  to  me  above  all  others  this  adventure  be- 
longs, even  were  it  assigned  as  a reward  for  the  capture  of  Tunis. 
For  who  was  the  first  on  the  height  and  within  the  city  ?”  “ That 

was  Don  Fadrique  Mendez,”  said  Heimbert,  taking  the  speaker  by 
the  hand  and  leading  him  before  the  general.  “If  I now  for  his 
sake  must  forfeit  my  promised  reward,  I must  patiently  submit  ; for 
he  has  rendered  better  service  than  I have  done  to  the  emperor  and 
the  army.” 

“Neither  of  you  shall  forfeit  his  reward,”  said  the  great  Alba. 
“ Each  has  permission  from  this  moment  to  seek  the  maiden  in  what- 
ever way  it  seems  to  him  most  advisable.” 

And  swift  as  lightning  the  two  young  captains  quitted  the  circle  of 
officers  in  opposite  directions. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A sea  of  sand,  stretching  out  in  the  distant  horizon,  without  one 
object  to  mark  its  extensive  surface,  white  and  desolate  in  its  vast- 
ness— such  is  tITe  scene  which  proclaims  the  fearful  desert  of  Sahara 
to  the  eye  of  the  wanderer  who  has  lost  himself  in  these  frightful  re- 
gions. In  this  also  it  resembles  the  sea,  that  it  casts  up  waves, 
and  often  a misty  vapor  hangs  oyer  its  surface.  But  there  is  not 
the  soft  play  of  waves  which  unite  all  the  coasts  of  the  earth  ; 
each  wave  as  it  rolls  in  bringing  a message  from  the  remotest 
and  fairest  island  kingdoms,  and  again  rolling  back  as  it  were  with 
an  answer,  in  a sort  of  love-flowing  dance.  No  ; there  is  here  only 
the  melancholy  sporting  of  the  hot  wind  with  the  faithless  dust, 


78 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


which  ever  falls  back  again  into  its  joyless  basin,  and  never  reaches 
the  rest  of  the  solid  land  with  its  happy  human  dwellings.  There  is 
here  none  of  the  sweet  cool  sea-breeze  in  which  kindly  fairies  seem 
carrying  on  their  graceful  sport,  forming  blooming  gardens  and  pil- 
lared palaces — there  is  only  a suffocating  vapor,  rebelliously  given 
back  to  the  glowing  sun  from  the  unfruitful  sands. 

Hither  the  two  youths  arrived  at  the  same  time,  and  paused,  gaz- 
ing with  dismay  at  the  pathless  chaos  before  them.  Zelinda’s  track, 
which  was  not  easily  hidden  or  lost,  had  hitherto  obliged  them 
almost  always  to  remain  together,  dissatisfied  as  Fadrique  was  at 
the  circumstance,  and  angry  as  were  the  glances  he  cast  at  his  unwel- 
como  companion.  Each  had  hoped  to  overtake  Zelinda  before  she 
had  reached  the  desert,  feeling  how  almost  impossible  it  would  be  to 
find  her  once  she  had  entered  it.  That  hope  was  now  at  an  end  ; and 
although  in  answer  to  the  inquiries  they  made  in  the  Barbary  villages 
on  the  frontier,  they  heard  that  a wanderer  going  southward  in  the 
desert  and  guiding  his  course  by  the  stars  would,  according  to  tra- 
dition, arrive  at  length  at  a wonderfully  fertile  oasis,  the  abode  of  a 
divinely  beautiful  enchantress,  yet  everything  appeared  highly  un- 
certain and  dispiriting,  and  was  rendered  still  more  so  by  the 
avalanches  of  dust  before  the  travellers’  view. 

The  youths  looked  sadly  at  the  prospect  before  them,  and  their 
horses  snorted  and  started  back  at  the  horrible  plain,  as  though  it 
were  some  insidious  quicksand,  and  even  the  riders  themselves  were 
seized  with  doubt  and  dismay.  Suddenly  they  sprung  from  their 
saddles,  as  at  some  word  of  command,  unbridled  their  horses, 
loosened  their  girths,  and  turned  them  loose  on  the  desert,  that  they 
might  find  their  way  back  to  some  happier  dwelling  place.  Then, 
taking  some  provision  from  their  saddle-bags,  they  placed  it  on  their 
shoulders,  and  casting  aside  their  heavy  riding  boots  they  plunged 
like  two  courageous  swimmers  into  the  trackless  waste. 


CHAPTER  X. 

With  mo  other  guide  than  the  sun  by  day,  and  by  night  the  host 
of  stars,  the  two  captains  soon  lost  sight  of  each  other,  and  all  the 
sooner  as  Fadrique  avoided  intentionally  the  object  of  his  aversion. 
Heimbert,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no  thought  but  the  attainment  of 
his  aim  ; and,  full  of  joyful  confidence  in  God’s  assistance,  he  pur- 
sued his  course  in  a southerly  direction. 

Many  nights  and  many  days  had  passed,  when  one  evening,  as  the 
twilight  was  coming  on,  Heimbert  was  standing  alone  in  the  endless 
desert,  unable  to  descry  a single  object  all  round  on  which  his  eye 
could  rest.  His  light  flask  was  empty,  and  the  evening  brought  with 


THE  TWO  C APT  AIKS. 


79 


it,  instead  of  the  hoped-for  coolness,  a suffocating  whirlwind  of 
sand,  so  that  the  exhausted  wanderer  was  obliged  to  press  his  burn- 
ing face  to  the  burning  soil  in  order  to  escape  in  some  measure  the 
fatal  cloud.  Now  and  then  he  heard  something  passing  him,  or 
rustling  over  him  as  with  the  sound  of  a sweeping  mantle,  and  he 
would  raise  himself  in  anxious  haste  ; but  he  only  saw  what  he  had 
already  too  often  seen  in  the  daytime — the  wild  beasts  of  the  wilder- 
ness roaming  at  liberty  through  the  desert  waste.  Sometimes  it  was 
an  ugly  camel,  then  it  was  a long-necked  and  disproportioned  giraffe, 
and  then  again  a long-legged  ostrich  hastening  away  with  its  wings 
outspread.  They  all  appeared  to  scorn  him,  and  he  had  already 
taken  his  resolve  to  open  his  eyes  no  more,  and  to  give  himself  up  to 
his  fate,  without  allowing  these  horrible  and  strange  creatures  to  dis- 
turb his  mind  in  the  hour  of  death. 

Presently  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  heard  the  hoofs  and  neighing 
of  a horse,  and  suddenly  something  halted  close  beside  him,  and  he 
thought  he  caught  the  sound  of  a man’s  voice.  Half  unwilling,  he 
could  not  resist  raising  himself  wearily,  and  he  saw  before  him  a 
rider  in  an  Arab’s  dress  mounted  on  a slender  Arabian  horse.  Over- 
come with  joy  at  finding  himself  within  reach  of  human  help,  he  ex- 
claimed, “ Welcome,  oh,  man,  in  this  fearful  solitude  ! If  thou 
canst,  succor  me,  thy  fellow-man,  who  must  otherwise  perish  with 
thirst !”  Then  remembering  that  the  tones  of  his  dear  German 
mother- tongue  were  not  intelligible  in  this  joyless  region,  he  repeated 
the  same  words  in  the  mixed  dialect,  generally  called  the  Lingua 
Romana , universally  used  by  heathens,  Mohammedans,  and  Chris- 
tians in  those  parts  of  the  world  where  they  have  most  intercourse 
with  each  other. 

The  Arab  still  remained  silent,  and  looked  as  if  scornfully  laughing 
at  his  strange  discovery.  At  length  he  replied,  in  the  same  dialect, 
“ I was  also  in  Barbarossa’s  fight ; and  if,  Sir  Knight,  our  overthrow 
bitterly  enraged  me  then,  I find  no  small  compensation  for  it  in  the 
fact  of  seeing  one  of  the  conquerors  lying  so  pitifully  before  me.” 
“ Pitifully  !”  exclaimed  Heimbert  angrily,  and  his  wounded  sense 
of  honor  giving  him  back  for  a moment  all  his  strength,  he  seized 
his  sword  and  stood  ready  for  an  encounter.  “ Oho  !”  laughed  the 
Arab,  ‘ ‘ does  the  Christian  viper  still  hiss  so  strongly  ? Then  it  only  be- 
hooves me  to  put  spurs  to  my  horse  and  leave  thee  to  perish  here,  thou 
lost  creeping  worm  !”  “ Ride  to  the  devil,  thou  dog  of  a heathen  !” 

retorted  Heimbert ; “ rather  than  entreat  a crumb  of  thee  I will  die 
here,  unless  the  good  God  sends  me  manna  in  the  wilderness.” 

And  the  Arab  spurred  forward  his  swift  steed  and  galloped  away 
a couple  of  hundred  paces,  laughing  with  scorn.  Then  he  paused, 
and  looking  round  to  Heimbert  he  trotted  back  and  said,  “ Thou 
seemest  too  good,  methinks,  to  perish  here  of  hunger  and  thirst.  Be- 
ware ! my  good  sabre  shall  touch  thee.” 

Heimbert,  who  had  again  stretched  himself  hopelessly  on  the 


80 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


burning  sand,  was  quickly  roused  to  his  feet  by  these  wrords,  and 
seized  liis  sword  ; and  sudden  as  was  the  spring  with  which  the 
Arab’s  horse  flew  toward  him,  the  stout  German  warrior  stood  ready 
to  parry  the  blow,  and  the  thrust  wfliich  the  Arab  aimed  at  him  in 
the  Mohammedan  manner  he  warded  off  with  certainty  and  skill. 

Again  and  again  the  Arab  sprung  similarly  here  and  there,  vainly 
hoping  to  give  his  antagonist  a death-blow.  At  last,  overcome  by 
impatience,  he  approached  so  boldly  that  Heimbert,  warding  off  the 
threatening  weapon,  had  time  to  seize  the  Arab  by  the  girdle  and  drag 
him  from  the  fast-galloping  horse.  The  violence  of  the  movement 
threw  Heimbert  also  on  the  ground,  but  he  lay  above  his  opponent, 
and  holding  close  before  his  eyes  a dagger,  which  he  had  dexterously 
drawn  from  his  girdle,  he  exclaimed,  “ Wilt  thou  have  mercy  or 
death  ?”  The  Arab,  trembling,  cast  down  his  eyes  before  the  gleam- 
ing and  murderous  weapon,  and  said,  “ Show  mercy  to  me,  mighty 
warrior  ; I surrender  to  thee.”  Heimbert  then  ordered  him  to  throw 
away  the  sabre  he  still  held  in  his  right  hand.  He  did  so,  and  both 
combatants  rose,  and  again  sunk  down  upon  the  sand,  for  the  victor 
was  far  more  weary  than  the  vanquished. 

The  Arab’s  good  horse  meanwhile  had  trotted  toward  them,  ac- 
cording to  the  habit  of  those  noble  animals,  who  never  forsake  their 
fallen  master.  It  now  stood  behind  the  two  men,  stretching  out  its 
long  slender  neck  affectionately  toward  them.  “ Arab,”  said  Heim- 
bert with  exhausted  voice,  “ take  from  thy  horse  what  provision  thou 
hast  with  thee  and  place  it  before  me.”  The  vanquished  man 
humbly  did  as  he  was  commanded,  now  just  as  much  submitting  to 
the  will  of  the  conqueror  as  he  had  before  exhibited  his  animosity  in 
anger  and  revenge.  After  a few  draughts  of  palm-wine  from  the 
skin,  Heimbert  looked  at  the  youth  under  a new  aspect ; he  then 
partook  of  some  fruits,  drank  more  of  the  palm-wine,  and  at  length 
said,  “You  are  going  to  ride  still  farther  to-night,  young  man?” 
“ Yes,  indeed,”  replied  the  Arab  sadly  ; “ on  a distant  oasis  there 
dwells  my  aged  father  and  my  blooming  bride.  Now — even  if  you 
set  me  at  full  liberty — I must  perish  in  the  heat  of  this  barren  desert, 
for  want  of  sustenance,  before  I can  reach  my  lovely  home.” 

“ Is  it,  perhaps,”  asked  Heimbert,  “ the  oasis  on  which  the  mighty 
enchantress,  Zelinda,  dwells?” 

“ Allah  protect  me!”  cried  the  Arab,  clasping  his  hands.  “ Ze- 
linda’s  wondrous  isle  offers  no  hospitable  shelter  to  any  but  magi- 
cians. It  lies  far  away  in  the  scorching  south,  while  our  friendly 
oasis  is  toward  the  cooler  west.” 

“ I only  asked  in  case  we  might  be  travelling  companions,”  said 
Heimbert  courteously.  “ If  that  cannot  be,  we  must  certainly  divide 
the  provisions  ; for  I would  not  have  so  brave  a warrior  as  you  perish 
with  hunger  and  thirst.” 

So  saying,  the  young  captain  began  to  arrange  the  provisions  in 
two  portions,  placing  the  larger  on  his  left  and  the  smaller  at  his 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


81 


right ; lie  then  desired  the  Arab  to  take  the  former,  and  added,  to  his 
astonished  companion,  “ See,  good  sir,  I have  either  not  much  far- 
ther to  travel  or  I shall  perish  in  the  desert ; I feel  that  it  will  be  so. 
Besides,  I cannot  carry  half  so  much  on  foot  as  you  can  on  horse- 
back.” 

“Knight!  victorious  knight!”  cried  the  amazed  Mussulman, 
“ am  I then  to  keep  my  horse  ?” 

“It  were  a sin  and  shame  indeed,”  said  Heimbert,  smiling,  “to 
separate  such  a faithful  steed  from  such  a skilful  rider.  Ride  on,  in 
God’s  name,  and  get  safely  to  your  people.” 

He  then  helped  him  to  mount,  and  the  Arab  was  on  the  point  of 
uttering  a few  words  of  gratitude,  when  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
“The  magic  maiden!”  and,  swift  as  the  wind,  he  flew  over  the 
dusty  plain.  Heimbert,  however,  turning  round,  saw  close  beside 
him  in  the  now  bright  moonlight  a shining  figure,  which  he  at  once 
perceived  to  be  Zelinda. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  maiden  looked  fixedly  at  the  young  soldier,  and  seemed  con- 
sidering with  what  words  to  address  him,  while  he,  after  his  long 
search  and  now  unexpected  success,  was  equally  at  a loss.  At  last 
she  said  in  Spanish,  “ Thou  wonderful  enigma,  I have  been  witness 
of  all  that  has  passed  between  thee  and  the  Arab  ; and  these  affairs 
confuse  my  head  like  a whirlwind.  Speak,  therefore,  plainly,  that  I 
may  know  whether  thou  art  a madman  or  an  angel  ?” 

“I  am  neither,  dear  lady,”  replied  Heimbert,  with  his  wonted 
friendliness.  “ I am  only  a poor  wanderer,  who  has  just  been  put- 
ting into  practice  one  of  the  commands  of  his  Master,  Jesus  Christ.” 

“ Sit  down,”  said  Zelinda,  “ and  tell  me  of  thy  Master  ; he  must 
be  himself  unprecedented  to  have  such  a servant.  The  night  is  cool 
and  still,  and  at  my  side  thou  hast  no  cause  to  fear  the  dangers  of  the 
desert.” 

“ Lady,”  replied  Heimbert,  smiling,  “ I am  not  of  a fearful  nature, 
and  when  I am  speaking  of  my  dear  Saviour  my  mind  is  perfectly 
free  from  all  alarm.” 

Thus  saying,  they  both  sat  down  on  the  now  cooled  sand  and  be- 
gan a wondrous  conversation,  while  the  full  moon  shone  upon  them 
from  the  deep-blue  heavens  above  like  a magic  lamp. 

Heimbert’s  words,  full  of  divine  love,  truth,  and  simplicity,  sank 
like  soft  sunbeams,  gently  and  surely,  into  Zelinda’s  heart,  driving 
away  the  mysterious  magic  power  which  dwelt  there,  and  wrestling 
for  the  dominion  of  the  noble  territory  of  her  soul.  When  morning 
began  to  dawn  she  said,  “ Thou  wouldst  not  be  called  an  angel  last 
evening,  but  thou  art  truly  one.  For  what  else  are  angels  than  mes- 


82 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


sengers  of  the  Most  High  God?”  “ In  that  sense,”  rejoined  Heim- 
bert,  “ I am  well  satisfied  with  the  name,  for  I certainly  hope  that  I 
am  the  bearer  of  my  Master’s  message.  Yes,  if  he  bestows  on  mo 
further  grace  and  strength,  it  may  even  be  that  you  also  may  become 
my  companion  in  the  pious  work.”  “It  is  not  impossible,”  said 
Zelinda  thoughtfully.  “ Thou  must,  however,  come  with  me  to  my 
island,  and  there  thou  shalt  be  regaled  as  is  befitting  such  an  ambas- 
sador, far  better  than  here  on  the  desolate  sand,  with  the  miserable 
palm-wine  that  thou  hast  so  laboriously  obtained.” 

“ Pardon  me,”  replied  Heimbert  ; “ it  is  difficult  to  me  to  refuse 
the  request  of  a lady,  but  on  this  occasion  it  cannot  be  otherwise. 
In  your  island  many  glorious  things  have  been  conjured  together  by 
your  forbidden  art,  and  many  lovely  forms  which  the  good  God  has 
created  have  been  transformed.  These  might  dazzle  my  senses,  and 
at  last  delude  them.  If  you  will,  therefore,  hear  the  best  and  purest 
things  which  I can  relate  to  you,  you  must  rather  come  out  to  me  on 
this  desert  sand.  The  palm- wine  and  the  dates  of  the  Arab  will 
suffice  for  me  for  many  a day  to  come.”  “ You  would  do  better  to 
come  with  me,”  said  Zelinda,  shaking  her  head  with  somewhat. of  a 
scornful  smile.  “ You  were  certainly  neither  born  nor  brought  up 
to  be  a hermit,  and  there  is  nothing  on  my  oasis  so  destructive  as  you 
imagine.  What  is  there  more  than  shrubs  &nd  flowers  and  beasts 
gathered  together  from  different  quarters  of  the  world,  perhaps  a 
little  strangely  interwoven  ; each,  that  is  to  say,  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  the  other,  in  a similar  manner  to  that  which  you  must  have 
seen  in  our  Arabian  carving  ! A moving  flower,  a bird  growing  on 
a branch,  a fountain  gleaming  with  fiery  sparks,  a singing  twig — these 
are  truly  no  hateful  things  ?”  “ He  must  avoid  temptation  who  does 
not  wish  to  be  overcome  by  it,”  said  Heimbert  very  gravely  ; “ I am 
for  the  desert.  Will  it  please  you  to  come  out  to  visit  me  again?” 
Zelinda  looked  down  somewhat  displeased.  Then  suddenly  bending 
her  head  still  lower  she  replied,  “ Yes  ; toward  evening  I shall  be 
here  again.  ” And,  turning  away,  she  at  once  disappeared  in  the  rising 
whirlwind  of  the  desert. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

With  the  evening  twilight  the  lovely  lady  returned  and  spent  the 
night  in  converse  with  the  pious  youth,  leaving  him  in  the  morning 
with  her  mind  more  humble,  pure,  and  devout ; and  thus  matters 
went  on  for  many  days.  “ Thy  palm-wine  and  thy  dates  must  be 
coming  to  an  end,”  said  Zelinda  one  evening  as  she  presented  the 
youth  with  a flask  of  rich  wine  and  some  costly  fruits.  He,  how- 
ever, gently  put  aside  the  gift  and  said,  “ Noble  lady,  I would  accept 
your  gift  gladly,  but  I fear  some  of  your  magic  arts  may  perhaps 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


83 


cleave  to  it.  Or  could  you  assure  me  to  the  contrary  by  Him  whom 
you  are  now  beginning  to  know  ?”  Zelinda  cast  down  her  eyes  in 
silent  confusion  and  took  her  presents  back.  On  the  following 
evening,  however,  she  brought  similar  gifts,  and,  smiling  confidently, 
gave  the  desired  assurance.  Heimbert  then  partook  of  them  without 
hesitation,  and  from  henceforth  the  disciple  carefully  provided  foi 
the  sustenance  of  her  teacher  in  the  wilderness. 

And  so,  as  the  blessed  knowledge  of  the  truth  sank  more  and  mortf 
deeply  into  Zelinda’s  soul,  so  that  she  was  often  sitting  till  dawn 
before  the  youth,  with  cheeks  glowing  and  hair  dishevelled,  her  eyes 
gleaming  with  delight  and  her  hands  folded,  unable  to  withdraw 
herself  from  his  words,  he,  on  his  part,  endeavored  to  make  her 
sensible  at  all  times  that  it  was  only  Fadrique’s  love  for  her  which 
had  urged  him.  his  friend,  into  this  fatal  desert,  and  that  it  was  this 
same  love  that  had  thus  become  the  means  for  the  attainment  of  her 
highest  spiritual  good.  She  still  well  remembered  the  handsome  and 
terrible  captain  who  had  stormed  the  height  that  he  might  clasp  her 
in  his  arms  ; and  she  related  to  her  friend  how  the  same  hero  had 
afterward  saved  her  in  the  burning  library.  Heimbert  too  had  many 
pleasant  things  to  tell  of  Fadrique — of  his  high  knightly  courage,  of 
his  grave  and  noble  manners,  and  of  his  love  to  Zelinda,  which  in 
the  night  after  the  battle  of  Tunis  was  no  longer  concealed  within  his 
passionate  breast,  but  was  betrayed  to  the  young  German  in  a thou- 
sand unconscious  expressions  between  sleeping  and  waking.  Divine 
truth  and  the  image  of  her  loving  hero  both  at  once  sunk  deep 
within  Zelinda’s  heart,  and  struck  root  there  with  tender  but  inde- 
structible power.  Heimbert’s  presence  and  the  almost  adoring  ad- 
miration with  which  his  pupil  regarded  him  did  not  disturb  "these 
feelings,  for  from  the  first  moment  his  appearance  had  something  in 
it  so  pure  and  heavenly  that  no  thoughts  of  earthly  love  intruded. 
When  Heimbert  was  alone  he  would  often  smile  happily  within 
himself,  saying  in  his  own  beloved  German  tongue,  “ It  is  indeed 
delightful  that  I am  now  able  consciously  to  do  the  same  service  for 
Fadrique  as  he  did  for  me,  unconsciously,  with  his  angelic  sister.” 
And  then  he  would  sing  some  German  song  of  Clara’s  grace  and 
beauty,  the  sound  of  which  rang  with  strange  sweetness  through  the 
desert,  while  it  happily  beguiled  his  solitary  hours. 

Once  when  Zelinda  came  in  the  evening  twilight,  gracefully  bear- 
ing on  her  beautiful  head  a basket  of  provisions  for  Heimbert,  he 
smiled  at  her  and  shook  his  head,  saying,  “It  is  inconceivable  to 
me,  sweet  maiden,  why  you  ever  give  yourself  the  trouble  of  coming 
to  me  out  here  in  the  desert.  You  can  indeed  no  longer  find  pleasure- 
in  magic  arts,  since  the  spirit  of  truth  and  love  dwells  within  you. 
If  you  would  only  transform  the  oasis  into  the  natural  form  in  which 
the  good  God  created  it,  I would  go  there  with  you,  and  we  should 
have  far  more  time  for  holy  converse.”  “ Sir,”  replied  Zelinda, 
‘‘  you  speak  truly.  I too  have  thought  for  some  days  of  doing  so, 


84 


THE  TWO  C APT  AIKS. 


and  the  matter  would  have  been  alreadj'  set  on  foot,  but  a strange 
visitor  fetters  my  power.  The  Dervish  whom  you  saw  in  Tunis  is 
with  me,  and  as  in  former  times  we  have  practised  many  magic  tricks 
with  each  other,  he  would  like  again  to  play  the  old  game.  He  per- 
ceives the  change  in  me,  and  on  that  account  urges  me  all  the  more 
vehemently  and  dangerously.” 

“ He  must  either  be  driven  away  or  converted,”  said  Heimbert, 
girding  on  his  shoulder-belt  more  firmly,  and  taking  up  his  shield 
from  the  ground.  “ Have  the  goodness,  dear  maiden,  ” he  continued, 
“ to  lead  me  to  your  enchanted  isle.” 

“ You  avoided  it  so  before,”  said  the  astonished  Zelinda,“  and  it 
is  still  unchanged  in  its  fantastic  form.” 

“ Formerly  it  would  have  been  only  inconsiderate  curiosity  to 
have  ventured  there,”  replied  Heimbert.  “You  came  too  out  here 
to  me,  and  that  was  better  for  us  both.  But  now  the  old  enemy 
might  lay  snares  for  the  ruin  of  all  that  the  Lord  has  been  working 
in  you,  and  so  it  is  a knightly  duty  to  go.  In  God’s  name,  then,  to 
the  work  !” 

And  they  hastened  forward  together,  through  the  ever-increasing 
darkness  of  the  plain,  on  their  way  to  the  blooming  island. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A charming  breeze  began  to  cool  the  heated  brows  of  the  travel- 
lers, and  the  twinkling  starlight  revealed  in  the  distance  a grove, 
waving  to  and  fro  with  the  gentle  motion  of  the  air.  Heimbert  cast 
his  eyes  to  the  ground  and  said,  ‘ 4 Go  before  me,  sweet  maiden,  and 
guide  my  path  to  the  spot  where  I shall  find  this  threatening  Dervish. 
I do  not  wish  unnecessarily  to  see  anything  of  these  ensnaring  en- 
chantments. ’ ’ 

Zelinda  did  as  he  desired,  and  the  relation  of  the  two  was  for  a 
moment  changed  ; the  maiden  had  become  the  guide,  and  Heimbert, 
full  of  confidence,  allowed  himself  to  be  led  upon  the  unknown  path. 
Branches  were  even  now  touching  his  cheeks,  half  caressingly  and 
playfully  ; wonderful  birds,  growing  out  of  bushes,  sang  joyful 
songs  ; over  the  velvet  turf,  upon  which  Heimbert  ever  kept  his  eyes 
fixed,  there  glided  gleaming  serpents  of  green  and  gold,  with  little 
golden  crowns,  and  brilliant  stones  glittered  on  the  mossy  carpet. 
When  the  serpents  touched  the  jewels,  they  gave  forth  a silvery 
sound.  But  Heimbert  let  the  serpents  creep  and  the  gems  sparkle, 
without  troubling  himself  about  them,  intent  alone  on  following  the 
footsteps  of  his  guide. 

“We  are  there  !”  said  she  with  suppressed  voice  ; and  looking 
up  he  saw  a shining  grotto  of  shells,  within  which  he  perceived  a 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


85 


man  asleep  clad  in  golden  scale-armor  of  the  old  Numidian  fashion. 
“Is  that  also  a phantom,  there  yonder  in  the  golden  scales?”  in- 
quired Heimbert,  smiling  ; but  Zelinda  looked  very  grave  and  re- 
plied, “ Oh,  no  ! that  is  the  Dervish  himself,  and  his  having  put  on 
this  coat-of-mail,  which  has  been  rendered  invulnerable  by  dragon’s 
blood,  is  a proof  that  by  his  magic  he  has  become  aware  of  our  in- 
tention.” “ What  does  that  signify?”  said  Heimbert ; “ he  would 
have  to  know  it  at  last.”  And  he  began  at  once  to  call  out,  with  a 
cheerful  voice,  “ Wake  up,  old  sir,  wake  up  ! Here  is  an  acquaint- 
ance of  yours,  who  has  matters  upon  which  he  must  speak  to  you.” 

And  as  the  Dervish  opened  his  large  rolling  eyes,  everything  in  the 
magic  grove  began  to  move,  the  water  began  to  dance,  and  the 
branches  to  intertwine  in  wild  emulation,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  precious  stones  and  the  shells  and  corals  emitted  strange  and 
confusing  melodies. 

“ Roll  and  turn,  thunder  and  play  as  you  like  !”  exclaimed  Heim- 
bert, looking  fixedly  at  the  maze  around  him  ; “ you  shall  not  divert 
me  from  my  own  good  path,  and  Almighty  God  has  given  me  a good 
far-sounding  soldier’s  voice  which  can  make  itself  heard  above  all 
this  tumult.”  Then  turning  to  the  Dervish  he  said,  “It  appears, 
old  man,  that  you  already  know  everything  which  has  passed  between 
Zelinda  and  me.  In  case,  however,  that  it  is  not  so,  I will  tell  you 
briefly  that  she  is  already  as  good  as  a Christian,  and  that  she  is  the 
betrothed  of  a noble  Spanish  knight.  Place  nothing  in  the  way  of 
her  good  intention  ; I advise  you  for  your  own  sake.  But  still  better 
for  your  own  sake  would  it  be  if  you  would  become  a Christian 
yourself.  Discuss  the  matter  with  me,  and  first  bid  all  this  mad 
devilish  show  to  cease,  for  our  religion,  dear  sir,  speaks  of  far  too 
tender  and  divine  things  to  be  talked  of  with  violence  or  with  the 
loud  voice  necessary  on  the  field  of  war.  ’ ’ 

But  the  Dervish,  burning  with  hatred  to  the  Christians,  had  not 
waited  to  hear  the  knight’s  last  words  when  he  rushed  at  him  with  his 
drawn  scimitar.  Heimbert  merely  parried  his  thrust,  saying,  “ Take 
care  of  yourself,  sir  ! I have  heard  something  of  your  weapons  being 
charmed,  but  that  will  avail  but  little  before  my  sword.  It  has  been 
consecrated  in  holy  places.  ’ ’ 

The  Dervish  sprang  wildly  back  before  the  sword,  but  equally 
wildly  did  he  spring  to  the  other  side  of  his  adversary,  who  only  with 
difficulty  caught  the  terrible  cuts  of  his  weapon  upon  his  shield. 
Like  a gold-scaled  dragon  the  Mohammedan  swung  himself  round 
his  antagonist  with  an  agility  which,  with  his  long  flowing  white 
beard,  was  ghostly*  and  horrible  to  witness.  Heimbert  was  prepared 
to  meet  him  on  all  sides,  ever  keeping  a watchful  eye  for  some  opening 
in  the  scales  made  by  the  violence  of  his  movements.  At  last  it  hap- 
pened as  he  desired  ; between  the  arm  and  breast  on  the  left  side 
the  dark  garments  of  the  Dervish  became  visible,  and  quick  as  light- 
ning the  German  made  a deadly  thrust.  The  old  man  exclaim  . J 


86 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


aloud,  “ Allah  ! Allah  !”  and  fell  forward,  fearful  even  in  his  fall,  a 
senseless  corpse. 

“ I pity  him  !”  sighed  Heimbert,  leaning  on  his  sword  and  looking 
down  on  his  fallen  foe.  “ He  has  fought  nobly,  and  even  in  death 
he -called  upon  his  Allah,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  true  God. 
He  must  not  lack  honorable  burial.”  He  then  dug  a grave  with  the 
broad  scimitar  of  his  adversary,  laid  the  corpse  within  it,  covered  it 
over  with  turf,  and  knelt  on  the  spot  in  silent  heartfelt  prayer  for  the 
soul  of  the  departed. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Heimbeet  rose  from  his  pious  duty,  and  his  first  glance  fell  on 
Zelinda,  who  stood  smiling  by  his  side,  and  his  second  upon  the 
wholly  changed  scene  around.  The  rocky  cavern  and  grotto  had 
disappeared,  the  distorted  forms  of  trees  and  beasts,  half  terrible  and 
half  charming  as  they  were,  had  vanished  also  ; a gentle  grassy  hill 
sloped  down  on  every  side  of  the  point  where  he  stood,  toward  the 
sandy  waste  ; springs  gushed  out  here  and  there  in  refreshing 
beauty  ; date-trees  bent  over  the  little  paths — everything,  indeed,  in 
the  now  opening  day  was  full  of  sweet  and  simple  peace. 

“ Thank  God  !”  said  Heimbert,  turning  to  his  companion,  “you 
can  now  surely  feel  how  infinitely  more  lovely,  grand,  and  beautiful 
is  everything  as  our  dear  Father  has  created  it  than  it  can  be  when 
transformed  by  the  highest  human  art.  The  Heavenly  Gardener  has 
indeed  permitted  us,  his  beloved  children,  in  his  abundant  mercy,  to 
help  forward  his  gracious  works,  that  we  may  thus  become  happier 
and  better  ; but  we  must  take  care  that  we  change  notfiing  to  suit 
our  own  rash  wilful  fancies  ; else  it  is  as  if  we  were  expelling  our- 
selves a second  time  from  Paradise.”  “ It  shall  not  happen  again,” 
said  Zelinda  humbly.  “ But  may  you  in  this  solitary  region,  where 
we  are  not  likely  to  meet  with  any  priest  of  our  faith,  may  you  not 
bestow  on  me,  as  one  born  anew,  the  blessing  of  Holy  Baptism?” 

Heimbert,  after  some  consideration,  replied,  “ I hope  I may  do  so. 
And  if  I am  wrong,  God  will  pardon  me.  It  is  surely  done  in  the 
desire  to  bring  to  him  so  worthy  a soul  as  soon  as  possible.” 

So  they  walked  together,  silently  praying  and  full  of  smiling  hap- 
piness, down  to  one  of  the  pleasant  springs  of  the  oasis,  and  just  as 
they  reached  the  edge  and  prepared  themselves  for  the  holy  work 
the  sun  rose  before  them  as  if  to  confirm  and  strengthen  their  pur- 
pose, and  the  two  beaming  countenances  looked  at  each  other  with 
joy  and  confidence.  Heimbert  had  not  thought  of  the  Christian 
: ‘'me  be  should  bestow  on  his  disciple,  but  as  he  scooped  up  the 
•>.  i t,  and  the  desert  lay  around  him  so  solemn  in  the  rosy  glow  of 


THE  TWO  CAPTAIXS.  87 

morning,  he  remembered  the  pious  hermit  Antony  in  his  Egyptian 
solitude,  and  he  baptized  the  lovely  convert,  Antonia. 

They  spent  the  day  in  holy  conversation,  and  Antonia  showed  her 
friend  a little  cave,  in  which  she  had  concealed  all  sorts  of  store  for 
her  sustenance  when  she  first  dwelt  on  the  oasis.  “For,”  said  she, 
“ the  good  God  is  my  witness  that  I came  hither  only  that  I might, 
in  solitude,  become  better  acquainted  with  him  and  his  created  works, 
without  knowing  at  that  time  in  the  least  of  any  magic  expedients. 
Subsequently  the  Dervish  came,  tempting  me,  and  the  horrors  of  the 
desert  joined  in  a fearful  league  with  his  terrible  power,  and  then  by 
degrees  followed  all  that  alluring  spirits  showed  me  either  in  dreams 
or  awake.  ” 

Heimbert  had  no  scruple  to  take  with  him  for  the  journey  any  of 
the  wine  and  fruits  that  were  still  fit,  for  use,  and  Antonia  assured 
him  that  by  the  direct  way,  well  known  to  her,  they  would  reach  the 
fruitful  shore  of  this  waterless  ocean  in  a few  days.  So  with  the  ap- 
proach of  evening  coolness  they  set  out  on  their  journey. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  travellers  had  almost  traversed  the  pathless  plain  when  one 
day  they  saw  a figure  wandering  in  the  distance,  for  in  the  desolate 
Sahara  every  object  is  visible  to  the  very  horizon  if  the  whirlwind 
of  dust  does  not  conceal  it  from  view.  The  wanderer  seemed  doubt- 
ful of  his  course,  sometimes  taking  this,  sometimes  that  direction, 
and  Antonia’s  eastern  falcon  eye  could  discern  that  it  was  no  Arab, 
but  a man  in  knightly  garb. 

“ Oh,  dear  sister,”  exclaimed  Heimbert,  full  of  anxious  joy,  “ then 
it  is  our  poor  Eadrique,  who  is  in  search  of  thee.  For  pity’s  sake,  let 
us  hasten  before  he  loses  us,  and  perhaps  at  last  his  own  life  also,  in  this 
immeasurable  waste.”  They  strained  every  effort  to  reach  the  dis- 
tant object,  but  as  it  was  now  midday  and  the  sun  shone  burningly 
upon  them,  Antonia  could  not  long  endure  this  rapid  progress  ; added 
to  which  the  fearful  whirlwind  soon  arose,  and  the  figure  that  had 
been  scarcely  visible  before  faded  from  their  eyes,  like  some  phantom 
of  the  mist  in  autumn. 

With  the  rising  moon  they  began  anew  to  hasten  forward,  calling 
loudly  upon  the  unfortunate  wanderer,  and  fluttering  white  handker- 
chiefs tied  to  their  walking-staffs,  as  signal  flags,  but  it  was  all  in 
vain.  The  object  that  had  disappeared  remained  lost  to  view.  Only 
a few  giraffes  sprang  shyly  past  them,  and  the  ostriches  quickened 
their  speed. 

At  length,  as  morning  dawned,  Antonia  paused  and  said,  “ Thou 
canst  not  leave  me,  brother,  in  this  solitude,  and  I cannot  go  a single 


88 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


step  farther.  God  will  protect  the  noble  Fadrique.  IIow  could  a 
father  forsake  such  a model  of  knightly  excellence  ?”  “ The  disci- 

ple shames  the  teacher,”  replied  Heimbert,  his  sad  face  brightening 
into  a smile.  “We  have  done  our  part,  and  we  may  confidently 
hope  that  God  will  come  to  the  aid  of  our  failing  powers  and  do 
what  is  necessary.”  As  he  spoke  he  spread  his  mantle  on  the  sand, 
that  Antonia  might  rest  more  comfortably.  Suddenly  looking  up, 
he  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  God  ! yonder  lies  a man,  completely  buried  in 
the  sand.  Oh,  that  he  may  not  be  already  dead  !” 

He  immediately  began  to  sprinkle  wine,  from  the  flask  he  carried, 
on  the  brow  of  the  fainting  traveller,  and  to  chafe  his  temples  with  it. 

The  man  at  last  slowly  opened  his  eyes  and  said,  “ I had  hoped 
the  morning  dew  would  not  again  have  fallen  on  me,  but  that  un- 
known and  unlamented  I might  have  perished  here  in  the  desert,  as 
must  be  the  case  in  the  end.”  So  saying  he  closed  his  eyes  again, 
like  one  intoxicated  with  sleep,  but  Heimbert  continued  his  restora- 
tives unwearyingly,  and  at  length  the  refreshed  wanderer  half  raised 
himself  from  the  sand  with  an  exclamation  of  astonishment. 

He  looked  from  Heimbert  to  his  companion,  and  from  her  again  at 
Heimbert,  and  suddenly  exclaimed,  gnashinghisteeth,  “ Ha,  was  it  to 
be  thus  ! I was  not  even  to  be  allowed  to  die  in  the  dull  happiness  of 
quiet  solitude  ! I was  to  be  first  doomed  to  see  my  rival’s  success 
and  my  sister’s  shame  !”  At  the  same  time  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a 
violent  effort  and  rushed  forward  upon  Heimbert  with  drawn  sword. 
But  Heimbert  moved  neither  sword  nor  arm,  and  merely  said,  in  a 
gentle  voice,  “ Wearied  out,  as  you  now  are,  I cannot  possibly  fight 
with  you  ; besides,  I must  first  place  this  lady  in  security.  ” Antonia, 
who  had  at  first  gazed  with  much  emotion  at  the  angry  knight,  now 
stepped  suddenly  between  the  two  men  and  cried  out,  “ Oh,  Fadrique, 
neither  misery  nor  anger  can  utterly  disfigure  you.  But  what  has 
my  noble  brother  done  to  you  ?”  “ Brother  ?”  said  Fadrique,  with 

astonishment.  “Or  godfather,  or  confessor,”  interrupted  Heim- 
bert, “ as  you  will.  Only  do  not  call  her  Zelinda,  for  her  name  is 
now  Antonia  ; she  is  a Christian,  and  waits  to  be  your  bride.”  Fa- 
drique stood  fixed  with  surprise,  but  Heimbert’s  true-hearted  words 
and  Antonia’s  lovely  blushes  soon  revealed  the  happy  enigma  to  him. 
He  sank  down  before  the  longed-for  form  with  a sense  of  exquisite 
delight,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  inhospitable  desert  the  flowers  of 
love  and  gratitude  and  confidence  sent  their  sweetness  heavenward. 

The  excitement  of  this  happy  surprise  at  last  gave  way  to  bodily 
fatigue.  Antonia,  like  some  drooping  blossom,  stretched  her  fair 
form  on  the  again  burning  sand,  and  slumbered  under  the  protection 
of  her  lover  and  her  chosen  brother.  “ Sleep  also,”  said  Heimbert 
softly  to  Fadrique;  “you  must  have  wandered  about  wildly  and 
wearily,  for  exhaustion  is  pressing  down  your  eyelids  with  leaden 
weight.  I am  quite  fresh,  and  I will  watch  meanwhile.”  “Ah, 
Heimbert,”  sighed  the  noble  Castilian,  “ my  sister  is  thine,  thou  mes- 


THE  TWO  CAPTAIHS. 


89 


senger  from  Heaven  ; that  is  an  understood  thing.  But  now  for 
our  affair  of  honor  !”  “Certainly,”  said  Heimbert,  very  gravely, 
“ as  soon  as  we  are  again  in  Spain,  you  must  give  me  satisfaction  for 
that  over-hasty  expression.  Till  then,  however,  I beg  you  not  to 
mention  it.  An  unfinished  quarrel  is  no  good  subject  for  conversa- 
tion.” 

Fadrique  laid  himself  sadly  down  to  rest,  overcome  by  long-re- 
sisted sleep,  and  Heimbert  knelt  down  with  a glad  heart,  thanking 
the  good  God  for  having  given  him  success,  and  for  blessing  him 
with  a future  full  of  joyful  assurance. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  next  day  the  three  travellers  reached  the  edge  of  the  desert,  and 
refreshed  themselves  for  a week  in  an  adjacent  village,  which,  with 
its  shady  trees  and  green  pastures,  seemed  like  a little  paradise  in 
contrast  to  the  joyless  Sahara.  Fadrique’s  condition  especially  made 
this  rest  necessary.  He  had  never  left  the  desert  during  the  whole 
time,  gaining  his  subsistence  by  fighting  with  wandering  Arabs,  and 
often  almost  exhausted  by  the  utter  want  of  all  food  and  drink.  At 
length  he  had  become  so  thoroughly  confused  that  the  stars  could 
no  longer  guide  him,  and  he  had  been  driven  about,  sadly  and  object- 
less, like  the  dust  clouds  of  the  desert. 

Even  now,  at  times,  when  he  would  fall  asleep  after  the  midday 
meal,  and  Antonia  and  Heimbert  would  watch  his  slumbers  like  two 
smiling  angels,  he  would  suddenly  start  up  and  gaze  round  him  with 
a terrified  air,  and  then  it  was  not  till  he  had  refreshed  himself  by 
looking  at  the  two  friendly  faces  that  he  would  sink  back  again  into 
quiet  repose.  When  questioned  on  the  matter,  after  he  was  fully 
awake,  he  told  them  that  in  his  wanderings  nothing  had  been  more 
terrible  to  him  than  the  deluding  dreams  which  had  transported  him, 
sometimes  to  his  own  home,  sometimes  to  the  merry  camp  of  his 
comrades,  and  sometimes  into  Zelinda’s  presence,  and  then  leaving 
him  doubly  helpless  and  miserable  in  the  horrible  solitude  as  the 
delusion  vanished.  It  was  on  this  account  that  even  now  waking 
was  fearful  to  him,  and  even  in  sleep  a vague  consciousness  of  his 
past  sufferings  would  often  disturb  him.  “ You  cannot  imagine  it,” 
he  added.  “To  be  suddenly  transported  from  well-known  scenes 
into  the  boundless  desert  ! And  instead  of  the  longed-for  enchanting 
face  of  my  beloved,  to  see  an  ugly  camel’s  head  stretched  over  me  in- 
quisitively with  its  long  neck,  starting  back  as  I rose  with  still  more 
ugly  timidity  !” 

This,  with  all  other  painful  consequences  of  his  past  miseries,  soon 
rvholly  vanished  from  Fadrique’s  mind,  and  they  cheerfully  set  out 


90 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


on  their  journey  to  Tunis.  The  consciousness,  indeed,  of  his  in- 
justice to  Heirnbert  and  its  unavoidable  results  often  lay  like  a cloud 
upon  the  noble  Spaniard’s  brow,  but  it  also  softened  the  natural 
proud  severity  of  his  nature,  and  Antonia  could  cling  the  more  ten- 
derly and  closely  to  him  with  her  loving  heart. 

Tunis,  which  had  been  before  so  amazed  at  Zelinda’s  magic  power 
and  enthusiastic  hostility  against  the  Christians,  now  witnessed  An- 
tonia’s solemn  baptism  in  a newly -consecrated  edifice,  and  soon 
after  the  three  companions  took  ship  with  a favorable  wind  for 
Malaga. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Beside  the  fountain  where  she  had  parted  from  Heirnbert,  Dona 
Clara  was  sitting  one  evening  in  deep  thought.  The  guitar  on  her 
knees  gave  forth  a few  solitary  chords,  dreamily  drawn  from  it,  as  it 
were,  by  her  delicate  hands,  and  at  length  forming  themselves  into  a 
melody,  while  the  following  words  dropped  softly  from  her  partly 
opened  lips  : 

“ Far  away,  ’fore  Tunis  ramparts, 

Where  the  Christian  army  lies, 

Paynim  hosts  are  fiercely  fighting 
With  Spanish  troops  and  Spain’s  allies. 

Who  from  blood-stained  lilies  there, 

And  death’s  roses  pale  and  fair — 

Who  has  borne  the  conqueror’s  prize  ? 

“ Ask  Duke  Alba,  ask  Duke  Alba, 

Which  two  knights  their  fame  have  proved. 

One  was  my  own  valiant  brother, 

The  other  was  my  heart’s  beloved. 

And  I thought  that  I should  crown  them, 

Doubly  bright  with  glory’s  prize, 

And  a widow’s  veil  is  falling 
Doubly  o’er  my  weeping  eyes, 

For  the  brave  knights  ne’er  again 
Will  be  found  ’mid  living  men  ” 

The  music  paused,  and  soft  dew-drops  fell  from  her  heavenly  eyes. 
Heirnbert,  who  was  concealed  under  the  neighboring  orange-trees, 
felt  sympathetic  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  and  Fadrique,  who 
had  led  him  and  Antonia  there,  could  no  longer  delay  the  joy  of 
meeting,  hut  stepping  forward  with  his  two  companions  he  pre- 
sented himself  before  his  sister,  like  some  angelic  messenger. 

Such  moments  of  extreme  and  sudden  delight,  like  heavenly  bless- 
ings long  expected  and  rarely  vouchsafed,  are  better  imagined  by 
each  after  his  own  fashion,  and  it  is  doing  but  an  ill  service  to  re- 
count all  that  this  one  did  and  that  one  said.  Picture  it  therefore  to 
yourself,  dear  reader,  after  your  own  fancy,  as  you  are  certainly  far 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


91 


better  able  to  do,  if  the  two  loving  pairs  in  my  story  have  become 
dear  to  you  and  you  have  grown  intimate  with  them.  If  that,  how- 
ever, be  not  the  case,  what  is  the  use  of  wasting  unnecessary  words  ? 
For  the  benefit  of  those  who  with  heart-felt  pleasure  could  have  lin- 
gered over  this  meeting  of  the  sister  with  her  brother  and  her  lover, 
I will  proceed  with  increased  confidence.  Although  Heimbert, 
casting  a significant  look  at  Fadrique,  was  on  the  point  of  retiring  as 
soon  as  Antonia  had  been  placed  under  Dona  Clara’s  protection,  the 
noble  Spaniard  would  not  permit  him.  He  detained  his  companion- 
in-arms,  with  courteous  and  brotherly  requests  that  he  would  remain 
till  the  evening  repast,  at  which  some  relatives  of  the  Mendez  family 
joined  the  party,  and  in  their  presence  Fadrique  declared  the  brave 
Heimbert  of  Waldhausen  to  be  Dona  Glara’s  fiance,  sealing  the  be- 
trothal with  the  most  solemn  words,  so  that  it  might  remain  indis- 
soluble, whatever  might  afterward  occur  which  should  seem  inimical 
to  their  union.  The  witnesses  were  somewhat  astonished  at  these 
strange  precautionary  measures,  but  at  Fadrique’s  desire  they  un- 
hesitatingly gave  their  word  that  all  should  be  carried  out  as  he 
wished,  and  they  did  this  the  more  unhesitatingly  as  the  Duke  of 
Alba,  who  had  just  been  in  Malaga  on  some  naval  business,  had  filled 
the  whole  city  with  the  praises  of  the  two  young  captains. 

As  the  richest  wine  was  now  passing  round  the  table  in  the  tall 
crystal  goblets,  Fadrique  stepped  behind  Heimbert ’s  chair  and 
whispered  to  him,  “ If  it  please  you,  Senor — the  moon  is  just  risen 
and  is  shining  as  bright  as  day — I am  ready  to  give  you  satisfaction.  ” 
Heimbert  nodded  in  assent,  and  the  two  youths  quitted  the  hall,  fol- 
lowed by  the  sweet  salutations  of  the  unsuspecting  ladies. 

As  they  passed  through  the  beautiful  garden,  Fadrique  said,  with  a 
sigh,  “We  could  have  wandered  here  so  happily  together,  but  for 
my  over-rashness  !”  “Yes,  indeed,”  said  Heimbert,  “ but  so  it  is, 
and  it  cannot  be  otherwise,  if  we  would  continue  to  look  upon  each 
other  as  a soldier  and  a nobleman.”  “ True  !”  replied  Fadrique,  and 
they  hastened  to  reach  a distant  part  of  the  garden,  where  the  sound 
of  their  clashing  swords  could  not  reach  the  gay  hall  of  betrothal 
they  had  left. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Secret  and  inclosed,  with  blooming  shrubs  planted  around,  with 
not  a sound  to  be  heard  of  the  merry  company,  nor  of  the  animated 
streets  of  the  city,  with  the  full  moon  shining  overhead  and  bright- 
ening the  solemn  circle  with  its  clear  brilliancy — such  was  the  spot. 
The  two  captains  unsheathed  their  gleaming  swords  and  stood  op- 
posite each  other,  ready  for  the  encounter.  But  before  they  began 
the  combat  a nobler  feeling  drew  them  to  each  other’s  arms  ; they 


92 


THE  TWO  CAPTAIXS. 


lowered  their  weapons  and  embraced  in  the  most  fraternal  manner. 
They  then  tore  themselves  away  and  the  fearful  contest  began. 

They  were  now  no  longer  brothers-in-arms,  no  longer  friends,  no 
longer  brothers-in-law,  who  directed  their  sharp  steels  against  each 
other.  With  the  most  resolute  boldness,  but  with  the  coolest  col- 
lectedness, each  fell  upon  his  adversary,  guarding  his  own  breast  at 
the  same  time.  After  a few  hot  and  dangerous  passes  the  combat- 
ants were  obliged  to  rest,  and  during  the  pause  they  regarded  each 
other  with  increassed  love,  each  rejoicing  to  find  his  comrade  so 
valiant  and  so  honorable.  And  then  the  fatal  strife  began  anew. 

With  his  left  hand  Heimbert  dashed  aside  Fadrique’s  sword, 
which  had  been  aimed  at  him  with  a thrust  in  tierce,  sideward,  but 
the  keen  edge  had  penetrated  his  leathern  glove,  and  the  red  blood 
gushed  out.  “ Hold  !”  cried  Fadrique,  and  they  searched  for  the 
wound,  but  soon  perceiving  that  it  was  of  no  importance,  and  bind- 
ing it  up,  they  both  began  the  combat  with  undiminished  vigor. 

It  was  not  long  before  Heimbert’s  blade  pierced  Fadrique’s  right 
shoulder,  and  the  German,  feeling  that  he  had  wounded  his  oppo- 
nent, now  on  his  side  called  out  to  halt.  At  first  Fadrique  would 
not  acknowledge  to  the  injury,  but  soon  the  blood  began  to  trickle 
down,  and  he  was  obliged  to  accept  his  friend’s  careful  assistance. 
Still  this  wound  also  appeared  insignificant,  the  noble  Spaniard  still 
felt  power  to  wield  his  sword,  and  again  the  deadly  contest  was  re- 
newed with  knightly  ardor. 

Presently  the  garden-gate  clanked,  and  the  sound  of  a horse’s  step 
was  heard  advancing  through  the  shrubbery.  Both  combatants 
paused  in  their  stern  work  and  turned  toward  the  unwelcome  dis- 
turber. The  next  moment  through  the  slender  pines  a horseman 
was  visible  whose  dress  and  bearing  proclaimed  him  a warrior,  and 
Fadrique,  as  master  of  the  house,  at  once  addressed  him.  “ Senor,” 
said  he,  “ why  you  come  here,  intruding  into  a strange  garden,  we 
will  inquire  at  another  time.  For  the  present  I will  only  request 
you  to  leave  us  free  from  further  interruption  by  immediately  retir- 
ing, and  to  favor  me  with  your  name.”  “Retire  I will  not,”  re- 
plied the  stranger,  “ but  my  name  I will  gladly  tell  you.  I am  the 
Duke  of  Alba.”  And  as  he  spoke,  by  a movement  of  his  charger  a 
bright  moonbeam  fell  upon  his  pale  thin  face,  the  dwelling-place  of 
all  that  was  grand  and  worthy  and  terrible.  The  two  captains 
bowed  low  and  dropped  their  weapons. 

“ I ought  to  know  you,”  continued  Alba,  looking  at  them  with 
his  sparkling  eyes.  “ Yes,  truly,  I know  you  well,  you  are  the  two 
young  heroes  at  the  battle  of  Tunis.  God  be  praised  that  two  such 
brave  warriors,  whom  I had  given  up  for  lost,  are  still  alive  ; but 
tell  me,  what  is  this  affair  of  honor  that  has  turned  your  good  swords 
against  each  other  ? For  I hope  you  will  not  hesitate  to  declare  to 
me  the  cause  of  your  knightly  contest.  ’ ’ 

They  complied  with  the  great  duke’s  behest.  Both  the  noble 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


93 


youths  related  the  whole  circumstances,  from  the  evening  previous 
to  their  embarkation  up  to  the  present  moment,  while  Alba  remained 
between  them,  in  silent  thought,  almost  motionless,  like  some  eques- 
trian statue. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  captains  had  already  long  finished  their  story,  and  the  duke 
still  remained  silent  and  motionless,  in  deep  reflection.  At  last  he 
beeran  to  speak,  and  addressed  them  as  follows  : 

“ May  God  and  his  holy  word  help  me,  my  young  knights,  when  I 
say  that  I consider,  after  my  best  and  most  conscientious  belief,  that 
this  affair  of  yours  is  now  honorably  at  an  end.  Twice  have  you  met 
each  other  in  contest  on  account  of  those  irritating  words  which 
escaped  the  lips  of  Don  Fadrique  Mendez  ; and  if  indeed  the  slight 
wounds  you  have  hitherto  received  are  not  sufficient  compensation 
for  the  angry  expression,  there  is  still  your  common  fight  before 
Tunis,  and  the  rescue  in  the  desert  afforded  by  Sir  Heimbert  of  Waid- 
hausen  to  Don  Fadrique  Mendez,  after  he  had  gained  his  bride  for 
him.  From  all  this,  I consider  that  the  Knight  of  Waldhausen  is 
entitled  to  pardon  any  offence  of  an  adversary  to  whom  he  has  shown 
himself  so  well  inclined.  Old  Roman  history  tells  us  of  two  captains 
of  the  great  Julius  Caesar  who  settled  a dispute  and  cemented  a 
hearty  friendship  with  each  other  when  engaged  in  the  same  bold 
fight,  delivering  each  other  in  the  midst  of  a Gallic  army.  I affirm, 
however,  that  you  two  have  done  more  for  each  other  ; and  there- 
fore I declare  your  affair  of  honor  to  be  settled,  and  at  an  end. 
Sheathe  your  swords,  and  embrace  each  other  in  my  presence.” 

Obedient  to  the  command  of  their  general,  the  young  knights  for 
the  present  sheathed  their  weapons  ; but  anxious  lest  the  slightest 
possible  shadow  should  fall  on  their  honor  they  yet  delayed  the  rec- 
onciling embrace. 

The  great  Alba  looked  at  them  with  somewhat  of  an  indignant  air, 
and  said,  “ Do  you  then  suppose,  young  knights,  that  I could  wish 
to  save  the  lives  of  two  heroes  at  the  expense  of  their  honor  ? I 
would  rather  at  once  have  struck  you  dead,  both  of  you  at  once. 
But  I see  plainly  that  with  such  obstinate  minds  one  must  have  re- 
course to  other  measures.” 

And,  dismounting  from  his  horse,  he  fastened  it  to  a tree,  and  then 
stepped  forward  between  the  two  captains  with  a drawn  sword  in  his 
right  hand,  crying  out,  ” Whoever  will  deny  in  any  wise  that  the 
quarrel  between  Sir  Heimbert  of  Waldhausen  and  Don  Fadrique 
Mendez  is  honorably  and  gloriously  settled  must  settle  the  matter  at 
the  peril  of  his  life  with  the  Duke  of  Alba  ; and  should  the  present 


94 


THE  TWO  CAPTAINS. 


knights  have  any  objection  to  raise  to  this,  let  them  declare  it.  l 
stand  here  as  champion  for  my  own  conviction.” 

The  youths  bowed  submissively  before  the  great  umpire,  and  fell 
into  each  other’s  arms.  The  duke,  however,  embraced  them  both 
with  hearty  affection,  which  appeared  all  the  more  charming  and  re- 
freshing as  it  rarely  burst  forth  from  this  stern  character.  Then  he 
led  the  reconciled  friends  back  to  their  betrothed,  and  when  these, 
after  the  first  joyful  surprise  was  over  at  the  presence  of  the  honored 
general,  started  back  at  seeing  drops  of  blood  on  the  garments  of  the 
youths,  the  duke  said,  smiling,  “Oh,  ye  brides  elect  of  soldiers,  you 
must  not  shrink  from  such  jewels  of  honor.  Your  lovers  could  bring 
you  no  fairer  wedding  gift.  ’ ’ 

The  great  Alba  was  not  to  be  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  enacting 
the  office  of  father  to  the  two  happy  brides,  and  the  festival  of  their 
union  was  fixed  for  the  following  day.  From  that  time  forth  they 
lived  in  undisturbed  and  joyful  concord  ; and  though  the  Knight 
Heimbert  was  recalled  soon  afterward  with  his  lovely  consort  to  the 
bosom  of  his  German  Fatherland,  he  and  Fadrique  kept  up  the  link 
between  them  by  letters  and  messages  ; and  even  in  after  times  the 
descendants  of  the  lord  of  Waldhausen  boasted  of  their  connection 
with  the  noble  house  of  Mendez,  while  the  latter  have  ever  sacredly 
preserved  the  tradition  of  the  brave  and  magnanimous  Heimbert. 


THE  BND. 


ASCENDING  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA- 


On  the  eastern  coast  of  the  mountain  which  rises  above  Port  Louis 
in  the  Mauritius,  upon  a piece  of  land  bearing  the  marks  of  former 
cultivation,  are  seen  the  ruins  of  two  small  cottages.  Those  ruins 
are  situated  near  the  centre  of  a valley  formed  by  immense  rocks, 
and  which  opens  only  toward  the  north.  On  the  left  rises  the 
mountain,  called  the  Height  of  Discovery,  from  whence  the  eye  marks 
the  distant  sail  when  it  first  touches  the  verge  of  the  horizon,  and 
whence  the  signal  is  given  when  a vessel  approaches  the  island.  At 
the  foot  of  this  mountain  stands  the  town  of  Port  Louis.  Ou  the 
right  is  formed  the  road,  which  stretches  from  Port  Louis  to  the 
Shaddock  Grove,  where  the  church  bearing  that  name  lifts  its  head, 
surrounded  by  its  avenues  of  bamboo,  in  the  midst  of  a spacious 
plain  ; and  the  prospect  terminates  in  a forest  extending  to  the  far- 
thest bounds  of  the  island.  The  front  view  presents  the  bay,  denom- 
inated the  Bay  of  the  Tomb  : a little  on  the  right  is  seen  the  Cape  of 
Misfortune  ; and  beyond  rolls  the  expanded  ocean,  on  the  surface  of 
which  appear  a few  uninhabited  islands,  and,  among  others,  the 
Point  of  Endeavor,  which  resembles  a bastion  built  upon  the  flood. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  valley  which  presents  those  various  objects, 
the  echoes  of  the  mountain  incessantly  repeat  the  hollow  murmurs 
of  the  winds  that  shake  the  neighboring  forests,  and  the  tumultuous 
dashing  ,of  the  waves  which  break  at  a distance  upon  the  cliffs.  But 
near  the  ruined  cottages  all  is  calm  and  still,  and  the  only  objects 
which  there  meet  the  eye  are  rude  steep  rocks,  that  rise  like  a sur- 
rounding rampart.  Large  clumps  of  trees  grow  at  their  base,  on 
their  rifted  sides,  and  even  on  their  majestic  tops,  where  the  clouds 
seem  to  repose.  The  showers,  which  their  bold  points  attract,  often 
paint  the  vivid  colors  of  the  rainbow  on  their  green  and  brown  de- 
clivities, and  swell  the  sources  of  the  little  river  which  flows  at  their 
feet,  called  the  River  of  Fan-Palms. 

Within  this  inclosure  reigns  the  most  profound  silence.  The 
waters,  the  air,  all  the  elements  are  at  peace.  Scarcely  does  the  echo 
repeat  the  whispers  of  the  palm-trees  spreading  their  broad  leaves, 
the  long  points  of  which  are  gently  balanced  by  the  winds.  A soft 


6 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


light  illuminates  the  bottom  of  this  deep  valley,  on  which  the  sun 
shines  only  at  noon.  But  even  at  break  of  day  the  rays  of  light  are 
thrown  on  the  surrounding  rocks  ; and  their  sharp  peaks,  rising 
above  the  shadows  of  the  mountain,  appear  like  tints  of  gold  and 
purple  gleaming  upon  the  azure  sky. 

To  this  scene  I loved  to  resort,  where  I might  enjoy  at  once  the 
richness  of  the  extensive  landscape  and  the  charm  of  uninterrupted 
solitude.  One  day,  when  I was  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  cottages, 
and  contemplating  their  ruins,  a man  advanced  in  years  passed  near 
the  spot.  He  was  dressed  in  the  ancient  garb  of  the  island,  his  feet 
were  bare,  and  he  leaned  upon  a statf  of  ebony  ; his  hair  was  white, 
and  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  dignified  and  interesting. 
I bowed  to  him  with  respect  ; he  returned  the  salutation  ; and,  after 
looking  at  me  with  some  earnestness,  came  and  placed  himself  upon 
the  hillock  where  I was  seated.  Encouraged  by  this  mark  of  confi- 
dence, I thus  addressed  him  : 

“ Father,  can  you  tell  me  to  whom  those  cottages  once  belonged  ?” 
“ My  son,”  replied  the  old  man,  “ those  heaps  of  rubbish  and  that 
untilled  land  were,  twenty  years  ago,  the  property  of  two  families, 
who  then  found  happiness  in  this  solitude.  Their  history  is  affect- 
ing ; but  what  European,  pursuing  his  way  to  the  Indies,  will  pause 
one  moment  to  interest  himself  in  the  fate  of  a few  obscure  indi- 
viduals  ? What  European  can  picture  happiness  to  his  imagination 
amid  poverty  and  neglect  ? The  curiosity  of  mankind  is  only  at- 
tracted by  the  history  of  the  great,  and  yet  from  that  knowledge  lit- 
tle use  can  be  derived.”  “ Father,”  I rejoined,  “ from  your  man- 
ners and  your  observations,  I perceive  that  you  have  acquired  much 
experience  of  human  life.  If  you  have  leisure,  relate  to  me,  I be- 
seech you,  the  history  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  this  desert  ; and 
be  assured  that  even  the  men  who  are  most  perverted  by  the  preju- 
dices of  the  world  find  a soothing  pleasure  in  contemplating  that 
happiness  which  belongs  to  simplicity  and  virtue.”  The  old  man, 
after  a short  silence,  during  which  he  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hands, 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  recall  the  images  of  the  past,  thus  began  his 
narration  : 

Monsieur  la  de  Tour,  a young  man  who  was  a native  of  Nor- 
mandy, after  having  in  vain  solicited  a commission  in  the  French 
army,  or  some  support  from  his  own  family,  at  length  determined  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  this  island,  where  he  arrived  in  1726.  He  brought 
hither  a young  vroman,  whom  he  loved  tenderly,  and  by  whom  he 
was  no  less  tenderly  beloved.  She  belonged  to  a rich  and  ancient 
family  of  the  same  province  ; but  he  had  married  her  without  for- 
tune, and  in  opposition  to  the  will  of  her  relations,  who  refused  their 
consent,  because  he  was  found  guilty  of  being  descended  from  par- 
ents who  had  no  claims  to  nobility.  Monsieur  de  la  Tour,  leaving 
his  wife  at  Port  Louis,  embarked  for  Madagascar,  in  order  to  pur- 


PAUL  AND  VIRGIKIA. 


chase  a few  slaves  to  assist  him  in  forming  a plantation  in  this  island. 
He  landed  at  that  unhealthy  season  which  commences  about  the  mid- 
dle of  October,  and  soon  after  his  arrival  died  of  the  pestilential 
fever,  which  prevails  in  that  country  six  months  of  the  year,  and 
which  will  forever  baffle  the  attempts  of  the  European  nations  to 
form  establishments  on  that  fatal  soil.  His  effects  were  seized  upon 
by  the  rapacity  of  strangers  ; and  his  wife,  who  was  pregnant,  found 
herself  a widow  in  a country  where  she  had  neither  credit  nor  rec- 
ommendation, and  no  earthly  possession,  or  rather  support,  than 
one  negro  woman.  Too  delicate  to  solicit  protection  or  relief  from 
any  other  man  after  the  death  of  him  whom  alone  she  loved,  misfor- 
tune armed  her  with  courage,  and  she  resolved  to  cultivate  with  her 
slave  a little  spot  of  ground,  and  procure  for  herself  the  means  of 
subsistence.  In  an  island  almost  a desert,  and  where  the  ground  was 
left  to  the  choice  of  the  settler,  she  avoided  those  spots  which  were 
most  fertile  and  most  favorable  to  commerce  ; and  seeking  some  nook 
of  the  mountain,  some  secret  asylum,  where  she  might  live  solitary 
and  unknown,  she  bent  her  way  from  the  town  toward  those  rocks, 
where  she  wished  to  shelter  herself  as  in  a nest.  All  suffering  creat- 
ures, from  a sort  of  common  instinct,  fly  for  refuge  amid  their 
pains  to  haunts  the  most  wild  and  desolate  ; as  if  rocks  could  form  a 
rampart  against  misfortune  ; as  if  the  calm  of  nature  could  hush  the 
tumults  of  the  soul.  That  Providence  which  lends  its  support  when 
we  ask  but  the  supply  of  our  necessary  wants  had  a blessing  in  re- 
serve for  Madame  de  la  Tour  which  neither  riches  nor  greatness  can 
purchase  ; this  blessing  was  a friend. 

The  spot  to  which  Madame  de  la  Tour  fled  had  already  been  in- 
habited a year  by  a young  woman  of  a lively,  good-natured,  and 
affectionate  disposition.  Margaret  (for  that  was  her  name)  was  born 
in  Brittany,  of  a family  of  peasants,  by  whom  she  was  cherished  and 
beloved,  and  with  whom  she  might  have  passed  life  in  simple  rustic 
happiness,  if,  misled  by  the  weakness  of  a tender  heart,  she  had  not 
listened  to  the  passion  of  a gentleman  in  the  neighborhood,  who  prom- 
ised her  marriage.  He  soon  abandoned  her,  and  adding  inhuman- 
ity to  seduction,  refused  to  insure  a provision  for  the  child  of  which 
she  was  pregnant.  Margaret  then  determined  to  leave  forever  her 
native  village  and  go,  where  her  fault  might  be  concealed,  to  some 
colony  distant  from  that  country  where  she  had  lost  the  only  portion 
of  a poor  peasant  girl — her  reputation.  With  some  borrowed  money 
she  purchased  an  old  negro  slave,  with  whom  she  cultivated  a little 
spot  of  this  canton.  Here  Madame  de  la  Tour,  followed  by  her  negro 
woman,  found  Margaret  suckling  her  child.  Soothed  by  the  sight  of 
a person  in  a situation  somewhat  similar  to  her  own,  Madame  de  la 
Tour  related,  in  a few  words,  her  past  condition  and  her  present 
wants.  Margaret  was  deeply  affected  by  the  recital  ; and  more  anx- 
ious to  excite  confidence  than  esteem,  she  confessed,  without  dis 
guise,  the  errors  of  which  she  had  been  guilty.  “As  for  me,”  said 


8 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA, 


she,  “ I deserve  my  fate  ; but  you,  madam — you,  at  once  virtuous  and 
unhappy — ” And,  sobbing,  she  offered  Madame  de  la  Tour  both  her 
hut  and  her  friendship.  That  lady,  affected  by  this  tender  reception, 
pressed  her  in  her  arms,  and  exclaimed,  “Ah,  surely  Heaven  will 
put  an  end  to  my  misfortunes,  since  it  inspires  you,  to  whom  I am  a 
stranger,  with  more  goodness  toward  me  than  I have  ever  experi- 
enced from  my  own  relations.” 

I knew  Margaret ; and  although  my  habitation  is  a league  and  a 
half  from  hence,  in  the  woods  behind  that  sloping  mountain,  I con- 
sidered myself  as  her  neighbor.  In  the  cities  of  Europe  a street, 
sometimes  even  a less  distance,  separates  families  whom  nature  had 
united  ; but  in  new  colonies  we  consider  those  persons  as  neighbors 
from  whom  we  are  divided  only  by  woods  and  mountains  ; and, 
above  all,  at  that  period,  when  this  island  had  little  intercourse  with 
the  Indies,  neighborhood  alone  gave  a claim  to  friendship,  and  hos- 
pitality toward  strangers  seemed  less  a duty  than  a pleasure.  No 
sooner  was  I informed  that  Margaret  had  found  a companion,  than  I 
hastened  thither,  in  hope  of  being  useful  to  my  neighbor  and  her 
guest. 

Madame  de  la  Tour  possessed  all  those  melancholy  graces  which 
give  beauty  additional  power  by  blending  sympathy  with  admira- 
tion. Her  figure  was  interesting,  and  her  countenance  expressed  at 
once  dignity  and  dejection.  She  appeared  to  be  in  the  last  stage  of 
her  pregnancy.  I told  them  that,  for  the  future  interests  of  their 
children  and  to  prevent  the  intrusion  of  any  other  settler,  it  was  nec- 
essary they  should  divide  between  them  the  property  of  this  wild, 
sequestered  valley,  which  is  nearly  twenty  acres  in  extent.  They 
confided  that  task  to  me,  and  I marked  out  two  equal  portions  of 
land.  One  includes  the  higher  part  of  this  inclosure,  from  the  peak 
of  that  rock  buried  in  clouds  whence  springs  the  rapid  River  of  Fan- 
Palms,  to  that  wide  cleft  which  you  see  on  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  which  is  called  the  Cannon’s  Mouth,  from  the  resemblance 
in  its  form.  It  is  difficult  to  find  a path  along  this  wild  portion  of 
inclosure,  the  soil  of  which  is  incumbered  with  fragments  of  rock 
or  worn  into  channels  formed  by  torrents  ; yet  it  produces  noble 
trees  and  innumerable  fountains  and  rivulets.  The  other  portion  of 
land  is  comprised  in  the  plain  extending  along  the  banks  of  the 
River  of  Fan-Palms  to  the  opening  where  we  are  now  seated,  from 
whence  the  river  takes  its  course  between  those  two  hills  until  it 
falls  into  the  sea.  You  may  still  trace  the  vestiges  of  some  meadow- 
land  ; and  this  part  of  the  common  is  less  rugged  but  not  more  val- 
uable than  the  other  ; since  in  the  rainy  season  it  becomes  marshy, 
and  in  dry  weather  is  so  hard  and  unbending  that  it  will  yield  only  to 
the  stroke  of  the  hatchet.  When  I had  thus  divided  the  property,  I 
persuaded  my  neighbors  to  draw  lots  for  their  separate  possessions. 
The  higher  portion  of  land  became  the  property  of  Madame  de  la 
Tour  ; the  lower,  of  Margaret ; and  each  seemed  satisfied  with  her 


PAUL  AKD  VIRGINIA. 


9 


respective  share.  They  entreated  me  to  place  their  habitations  to- 
gether, that  they  might  at  all  times  enjoy  the  soothing  intercourse  of 
friendship  and  the  consolation  of  mutual  kind  offices.  Margaret’s 
cottage  was  situated  near  the  centre  of  the  valley,  and  just  on  the 
boundary  of  her  own  plantation.  Close  to  that  spot  I built  another 
cottage  for  the  dwelling  of  Madame  de  la  Tour  ; and  thus  the  two 
friends,  while  they  possessed  all  the  advantages  of  neighborhood, 
lived  on  their  own  property.  I myself  cut  palisades  from  the 
mountain  and  brought  leaves  of  fan-palms  from  the  sea-shore,  in  or- 
der to  construct  those  two  cottages,  of  which  you  can  now  discern 
neither  the  entrance  nor  the  roof.  Yet,  alas  ! there  still  remain  but 
too  many  traces  for  my  remembrance  ! Time,  which  so  rapidly  de- 
stroys the  proud  monuments  of  empires,  seems  in  this  desert  to  spare 
those  of  friendship,  as  if  to  perpetuate  my  regrets  to  the  last  hour  of 
my  existence. 

Scarcely  was  her  cottage  finished  when  Madame  de  la  Tour  was 
delivered  of  a girl.  I had  been  the  godfather  of  Margaret’s  child, 
who  was  christened  by  the  name  of  Paul.  Madame  de  la  Tour  de- 
sired me  to  perform  the  same  office  for  her  child  also,  together  with 
her  friend,  who  gave  her  the  name  of  Virginia.  “ She  will  be  virtu- 
ous,” cried  Margaret,  “ and  she  will  be  happy.  I have  only  known 
misfortune  by  wandering  from  virtue.” 

At  the  time  Madame  de  la  Tour  recovered,  those  two  little  territo- 
ries had  already  begun  to  yield  some  produce,  perhaps  in  a small  de- 
gree owing  to  the  care  which  I occasionally  bestowed  on  their  im- 
provement, but  far  more  to  the  indefatigable  labors  of  the  two 
slaves.  Margaret’s  slave,  who  was  called  Domingo,  was  still  healthy 
and  robust,  although  advanced  in  years  ; he  possessed  some  knowl- 
edge and  a good  natural  understanding.  He  cultivated  indiscrimi- 
nately, on  both  settlements,  such  spots  of  ground  as  were  most  fertile, 
and  sowed  whatever  grain  he  thought  most  congenial  to  each  partic- 
ular soil.  Where  the  ground  was  poor  he  strewed  maize,  where  it 
was  most  fruitful  he  planted  wheat,  and  rice  in  such  spots  as  were 
marshy.  He  threw  the  seeds  of  gourds  and  cucumbers  at  the  foot  of 
the  rocks,  which  they  loved  to  climb  and  decorate  with  their  luxuri- 
ant foliage.  In  dry  spots  he  cultivated  the  sweet  potato  ; the  cotton- 
tree  flourished  upon  the  heights,  and  the  sugar-cane  grew  in  the 
clayey  soil.  He  reared  some  plants  of  coffee  on  the  hills,  where  the 
grain,  although  small,  is  excellent.  The  plantain-trees,  which  spread 
their  grateful  shade  on  the  banks  of  the  river  and  encircled  the  cot* 
tage,  yielded  fruit  throughout  the  year.  And,  lastly,  Domingo  culti* 
vated  a few  plants  of  tobacco  to  charm  away  his  own  cares.  Some- 
times he  was  employed  in  cutting  wood  for  firing  from  the  moun- 
tain, sometimes  in  hewing  pieces  of  rock  within  the  inclosure,  in 
order  to  level  the  paths.  He  was  much  attached  to  Margaret,  and 
not  less  to  Madame  de  la  Tour,  whose  negro  woman,  Mary,  he  had 
married  at  the  time  of  Virginia’s  birth  ; and  he  was  passionately 


10 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


fond  of  his  wife.  Mary  was  bom  at  Madagascar,  from  whence  she 
had  brought  a few  arts  of  industry.  She  could  weave  baskets,  and  a 
sort  of  stuff,  with  long  grass  that  grows  in  the  woods.  She  was  ac- 
tive, cleanly,  and,  above  all,  faithful.  It  was  her  care  to  prepare 
their  meals,  to  rear  the  poultry,  and  go  sometimes  to  Port  Louis  and 
sell  the  superfluities  of  these  little  plantations,  which  were  not  very 
considerable.  If  you  add  to  the  personages  I have  already  mentioned 
two  goats,  who  were  brought  up  with  the  children,  and  a great  dog, 
who  kept  watch  at  night,  you  will  have  a complete  idea  of  the  house- 
hold as  well  as  of  the  revenue  of  those  two  farms. 

Madame  de  la  Tour  and  her  friend  were  employed  from  the  morn- 
ing till  the  evening  in  spinning  cotton  for  the  use  of  their  families. 
Destitute  of  all  those  things  which  their  own  industry  could  not  sup- 
ply, they  walked  about  their  habitations  with  their  feet  bare,  and 
shoes  were  a convenience  reserved  for  Sunday,  when,  at  an  early 
hour,  they  attended  mass  at  the  church  of  the  Shaddock  Grove, 
which  you  see  yonder.  That  church  is  far  more  distant  than  Port 
Louis  ; yet  they  seldom  visited  the  town,  lest  they  should  be  treated 
with  contempt,  because  they  were  dressed  in  the  coarse  blue  linen  of 
Bengal,  which  is  usually  worn  by  slaves.  But  is  there  in  that  ex- 
ternal deference  which  fortune  commands  a compensation  for  domes- 
tic happiness  ? If  they  had  something  to  suffer  from  the  world,  this 
served  but  to  endear  their  humble  home.  No  sooner  did  Mary  and 
Domingo  perceive  them  from  this  elevated  spot,  on  the  road  of  the 
Shaddock  Grove,  than  they  flew  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  in  order 
to  help  them  to  ascend.  They  discerned  in  the  looks  of  their  domes- 
tics that  joy  which  their  return  inspired.  They  found  in  their  re- 
treat neatness,  independence,  all  those  blessings  which  are  the  recom- 
pense of  toil,  and  received  those  services  which  have  their  source  in 
affection.  United  by  the  ties  of  similar  wants  and  the  sympathy  of 
similar  misfortunes,  they  gave  each  other  the  tender  names  of  com- 
panion, friend,  sister.  They  had  but  one  will,  one  interest,  one 
table.  All  their  possessions  were  in  common.  And  if  sometimes  a 
passion  more  ardent  than  friendship  awakened  in  their  hearts  the 
pang  of  unavailing  anguish,  a pure  religion,  united  with  chaste  man- 
ners, drew  their  affections  toward  another  life  : as  the  trembling 
flame  rises  toward  heaven  when  it  no  longer  finds  any  aliment  on 
earth. 

Madame  de  la  Tour  sometimes,  leaving  the  household  cares  to  Mar- 
garet, wandered  out  alone,  and  amid  the  sublime  scenery  in- 
dulged that  luxury  of  pensive  sadness  which  is  so  soothing  to 
the  mind  after  the  first  emotions  of  turbulent  sorrow  have  sub- 
sided. 

Sometimes  she  poured  forth  thp  effusions  of  melancholy  in  the  lan- 
guage of  verse  ; and  although  her  compositions  have  little  poetical 
merit,  they  appear  to  me  to  bear  the  marks  of  genuine  sensibility. 
Many  of  her  poems  are  lost,  but  some  still  remain  in  my  possession, 


PAUL  A HD  VIRGINIA. 


11 


and  a few  still  hang  on  my  memory.  I will  repeat  to  you  a sonnet 
addressed  to  Love  : 

SONNET  TO  LOVE. 

Ah,  Love ! ere  yet  I knew  thy  fatal  power, 

Bright  glow’d  the  color  of  my  youthful  days, 

As,  on  the  sultry  zone,  the  torrid  rays, 

That  paint  the  broad-leaved  plailtain’s  glossy  bower  : 

Calm  was  my  bosom  as  this  silent  hour, 

When  o’er  the  deep,  scarce  heard,  the  zephyr  strays, 

’Midst  the  cool  tam’rinds  indolently  plays, 

Nor  from  the  orange  shakes  its  od’rous  flower  ; 

But,  ah  ! since  Love  has  all  my  heart  possess’d, 

That  desolated  heart  what  sorrows  tear ! 

Disturb'd,  and  wild  as  ocean’s  troubled  breast, 

When  the  hoarse  tempest  of  the  night  is  there  ! 

Yet  my  complaining  spirit  asks  no  rest ; 

This  bleeding  bosom  cherishes  despair. 

The  tender  and  sacred  duties  which  nature  imposed  became  a 
source  of  additional  happiness  to  those  affectionate  mothers,  whose 
mutual  friendship  acquired  new  strength  at  the  sight  of  their  chil- 
dren, alike  the  offspring  of  unhappy  love.  They  delighted  to  place 
their  infants  together  in  the  same  bath,  to  nurse  them  in  the  same 
cradle,  and  sometimes  changed  the  maternal  bosom  at  which  they  re- 
ceived nourishment,  as  if  to  blend  with  the  ties  of  friendship  that  in- 
stinctive affection  which  this  act  produces.  “My  friend,”  cried 
Madame  de  la  Tour,  “we  shall  each  of  us  have  two  children,  and 
each  of  our  two  children  will  have  two  mothers.”  As  two  buds 
which  remain  on  two  trees  of  the  same  kind,  after  the  tempest  has 
broken  all  their  branches,  produce  more  delicious  fruit  if  each,  sep- 
arated from  the  maternal  stem,  be  grafted  on  the  neighboring  tree, 
so  those  two  children,  deprived  of  all  other  support,  imbibed  senti- 
ments more  tender  than  those  of  son  and  daughter,  brother  and  sis- 
ter, when  exchanged  at  the  breast  of  those  who  had  given  them  birth. 

While  they  were  yet  in  their  cradle  their  mothers  talked  of  their 
marriage  ; and  this  prospect  of  conjugal  felicity  with  which  they 
soothed  their  own  cares  often  called  forth  the  tears  of  bitter  regret. 
The  misfortunes  of  one  mother  had  arisen  from  having  neglected  mar- 
riage, those  of  the  other  from  having  submitted  to  its  laws  ; one  had 
been  made  unhappy  by  attempting  to  raise  herself  above  her  humble 
condition  of  life,  the  other  by  descending  from  her  rank.  But  they 
found  consolation  in  reflecting  that  the^r  more  fortunate  children,  far 
from  the  cruel  prejudices  of  Europe;  those  prejudices  which  poison 
the  most  precious  sources  of  our  happiness,  would  enjoy  at  once  the 
pleasures  of  love  and  the  blessings  of  equality. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  attachment  which  those  infants  already 
displayed  for  each  other.  If  Paul  complained,  his  mother  pointed  to 
Virginia,  and  at  that  sight  he  smiled  and  was  appeased.  If  any  acci- 
dent befell  Virginia,  the  cries  of  Paul  gave  notice  of  the  disaster,  and 
then  Virginia  would  suppress  her  complaints  when  she  found  that 


12 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA, 


Paul  was  unhappy.  When  I came  hither  I usually  found  them  quite 
naked,  which  is  the  custom  of  this  country,  tottering  in  their  walk 
and  holding  each  other  by  the  hands  and  under  the  arms,  as  we  rep- 
resent the  constellation  of  the  twins.  At  night  these  infants  often 
refused  to  be  separated,  and  were  found  lying  in  the  same  cradle, 
their  cheeks,  their  bosoms  pressed  close  together,  their  hands  thrown 
round  each  other’s  neck,  and  sleeping  locked  in  one  another’s  arms. 

When  they  began  to  speak,  the  first  names  they  learned  to  give 
each  other  were  those  of  brother  and  sister,  and  childhood  knows  no 
softer  appellation.  Their  education  served  to  augment  their  early 
friendship,  by  directing  it  to  the  supply  of  their  reciprocal  wants. 
In  a short  time  all  that  regarded  the  household  economy,  the  care  of 
preparing  the  rural  repasts,  became  the  task  of  Virginia,  whose  labors 
were  always  crowned  with  the  praises  and  kisses  of  her  brother.  As 
for  Paul,  always  in  motion,  he  dug  the  garden  with  Domingo,  or  fol- 
lowed him  with  a little  hatchet  into  the  woods,  where,  if  in  his  ram- 
bles he  espied  a beautiful  flower,  fine  fruit,  or  a nest  of  birds,  even  at 
the  top  of  a tree,  he  climbed  up,  and  brought  it  home  to  his  sister. 

When  you  met  with  one  of  these  children  you  might  be  sure  the 
other  was  not  distant.  One  day,  coming  down  that  mountain,  I saw 
Virginia  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  running  toward  the  house,  with 
her  petticoat  thrown  over  her  head,  in  order  to  screen  herself  from  a 
shower  of  rain.  At  a distance  I thought  she  was  alone  ; but  as  I 
hastened  toward  her,  in  order  to  help  her  on,  I perceived  that  she 
held  Paul  by  the  arm,  who  was  almost  entirely  enveloped  in  the  same 
canopy,  and  both  were  laughing  heartily  at  being  sheltered  together 
under  an  umbrella  of  their  own  invention.  Those  two  charming 
faces,  placed  within  the  petticoat  swelled  by  the  wind,  recalled  to 
my  mind  the  children  of  Leda  inclosed  within  the  same  shell. 

Their  sole  study  was  how  to  please  and  assist  each  other  ; for  of  all 
other  things  they  were  ignorant,  and  knew  neither  how  to  read  nor 
write.  They  were  never  disturbed  by  researches  into  past  times,  nor 
did  their  curiosity  extend  beyond  the  bounds  of  that  mountain. 
They  believed  the  world  ended  at  the  shores  of  their  own  island,  and 
all  their  ideas  and  affections  were  confined  within  its  limits.  Their 
mutual  tenderness  and  that  of  their  mothers  employed  all  the  activity 
of  their  souls.  Their  tears  had  never  been  called  forth  by  long  appli- 
cation to  useless  sciences.  Their  minds  had  never  been  wearied  by 
lessons  of  morality,  superfluous  to  bosoms  unconscious  of  ill.  They 
had  never  been  taught  that  they  must  not  steal,  because  everything 
with  them  was  in  common  ; or  be  intemperate,  because  their  simple 
food  was  left  to  their  own  discretion  ; or  false,  because  they  had  no 
truth  to  conceal.  Their  young  imaginations  had  never  been  terrified 
by  the  idea  that  God  has  punishments  in  store  for  ungrateful  chil- 
dren, since  with  them  filial  affection  arose  naturally  from  maternal 
fondness.  All  they  had  been  taught  of  religion  was  to  love  it  ; and 
if  they  did  not  offer  up  long  prayers  in  the  church,  wherever  they 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


13 


were,  in  the  house,  in  the  fields,  in  the  woods,  they  raised  toward 
Heaven  their  innocent  hands  and  their  hearts  purified  by  virtuous 
affections. 

Thus  passed  their  early  childhood,  like  a beautiful  dawn,  the  pre- 
lude of  a bright  day. 

Already  they  partook  with  their  mothers  the  cares  of  the  household. 
As  soon  as  the  cry  of  the  wakeful  cock  announced  the  first  beam  of 
the  morning,  Virginia  arose  and  hastened  to  draw  water  from  a 
neighboring  spring  ; then  returning  to  the  house  she  prepared  the 
breakfast.  When  the  rising  sun  lighted  up  the  points  of  those  rocks 
which  overhang  this  inclosure,  Margaret  and  her  child  went  to  the 
dwelling  of  Madame  de  la  Tour,  and  they  offered  up  together  their 
morning  prayer.  This  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  always  preceded 
their  first  repast,  which  they  often  partook  before  the  door  of  the  cot- 
tage, seated  upon  the  grass,  under  a canopy  of  plantain  ; and  while 
the  branches  of  that  delightful  tree  afforded  a grateful  shade,  its  solid 
fruit  furnished  food  ready  prepared  by  nature  ; and  its  long  glossy 
leaves,  spread  upon  the  table,  supplied  the  want  of  linen. 

Plentiful  and  wholesome  nourishment  gave  early  growth  and  vigor 
to  the  persons  of  those  children,  and  their  countenances  expressed  the 
purity  and  the  peace  of  their  souls.  At  twelve  years  of  age  the  figure 
of  Virginia  was  in  some  degree  formed  : a profusion  of  light  hair 
shaded  her  face,  to  which  her  blue  eyes  and  coral  lips  gave  the  most 
charming  brilliancy.  Her  eyes  sparkled  with  vivacity  when  she 
spoke,  but  when  she  was  silent  her  look  had  a cast  upward,  which 
gave  it  an  expression  of  extreme  sensibility,  or  rather  of  tender  mel- 
ancholy. Already  the  figure  of  Paul  displayed  the  graces  of  manly 
beauty.  He  was  taller  than  Virginia,  his  skin  was  of  a darker  tint, 
his  nose  more  aquiline,  and  his  black  eyes  would  have  been  too  pierc  • 
ing  if  the  long  eyelashes  by  which  they  were  shaded  had  not  given 
them  a look  of  softness.  He  was  constantly  in  motion,  except  when 
his  sister  appeared,  and  then,  placed  at  her  side,  he  became  quiet. 
Their  meals  often  passed  in  silence,  and  from  the  grace  of  their  at- 
titudes, the  beautiful  proportions  of  their  figures,  and  their  naked 
feet,  you  might  have  fancied  you  beheld  an  antique  group  of  white 
marble,  representing  some  of  the  children  of  Niobe  ; if  those  eyes 
which  sought  to  meet  those  smiles,  which  were  answered  by  smiles  of 
the  most  tender  softness,  had  not  rather  given  you  the  idea  of  those 
happy  celestial  spirits  whose  nature  is  love,  and  who  are  not  obliged  to 
have  recourse  to  words  for  the  expression  of  that  intuitive  sentiment . 
In  the  mean  time  Madame  de  la  Tour,  perceiving  every  day  some 
unfolding  grace,  some  new  beauty  in  her  daughter,  felt  her  maternal 
anxiety  increase  with  her  tenderness.  She  often  said  to  me,  “ If  I 
should  die,  what  will  become  of  Virginia  without  fortune  ?” 

Madame  de  la  Tour  had  an  aunt  in  France,  who  was  a woman  of 
quality,  rich,  old,  and  a great  bigot.  She  had  behaved  toward  her 
niece  with  so  much  cruelty  upon  her  marriage  that  Madame  de  la 
M.  C.— 8 


14 


PAUL  AKD  VIRGINIA. 


Tour  had  determined  that  no  distress  or  misfortune  should  ever  com- 
pel her  to  have  recourse  to  her  hard-hearted  relation.  But  when  she 
became  a mother,  the  pride  of  resentment  was  stifled  in  the  stronger 
feelings  of  maternal  tenderness.  She  wrote  to  her  aunt,  informing 
her  of  the  sudden  death  of  her  husband,  the  birth  of  her  daughter, 
and  the  difficulties  in  which  she  was  involved,  at  a distance  from  her 
own  country,  without  support,  and  burdened  with  a child.  She 
received  no  answer  ; but,  notwithstanding  that  high  spirit  which  was 
natural  to  her  character,  she  no  longer  feared  exposing  herself  to 
mortification  and  reproach  ; and,  although  she  knew  her  relation 
would  never  pardon  her  for  having  married  a man  of  merit  but  not 
of  noble  birth,  she  continued  to  write  to  her  by  every  opportunity, 
in  the  hope  of  awakening  her  compassion  for  Virginia.  Many  years, 
however,  passed,  during  which  she  received  not  the  smallest  testi- 
mony of  her  remembrance. 

At  length,  in  1738,  three  years  after  the  arrival  of  Monsieur  de  la 
Bourdonnais  in  this  island,  Madame  de  la  Tour  was  informed  that 
the  governor  had  a letter  to  give  her  from  her  aunt.  She  flew  to  Port 
Louis,  careless  on  this  occasion  of  appearing  in  her  homely  garment. 
Maternal  hope  and  joy  subdued  all  those  little  considerations,  which 
are  lost  when  the  mind  is  absorbed  by  any  powerful  sentiment. 
Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais  delivered  to  her  the  letter  from  her  aunt, 
who  informed  her  that  she  deserved  her  fate  for  having  married  an 
adventurer  and  a libertine  ; that  misplaced  passions  brought  along 
with  them  their  own  punishment,  and  that  the  sudden  death  of  her 
husband  must  be  considered  as  a visitation  from  Heaven  ; that  she 
had  done  well  in  going  to  a distant  island,  rather  than  dishonor  her 
family  by  remaining  in  France  ; and  that,  after  all,  in  the  colony 
where  she  had  taken  refuge  every  person  grew  rich  except  the  idle. 
Having  thus  lavished  sufficient  censure  upon  the  conduct  of  her  niece, 
she  finished  by  a eulogium  on  herself.  To  avoid,  she  said,  the 
almost  inevitable  evils  of  marriage,  she  had  determined  to  remain  in 
a single  state.  In  truth,  being  of  a very  ambitious  temper,  she  had 
resolved  only  to  unite  herself  to  a man  of  high  rank  ; and  although 
she  was  very  rich,  her  fortune  was  not  found  even  a sufficient  bribe, 
even  at  court,  to  counterbalance  the  malignant  disposition  of  her 
mind  and  the  disagreeable  qualities  of  her  person. 

She  added,  in  a postscript,  that,  after  mature  deliberation,  she  had 
strongly  recommended  her  niece  to  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais. 
This  she  had  indeed  done,  but  in  a manner  of  late  too  common,  and 
which  renders  a patron  perhaps  even  more  formidable  than  a declared 
enemy  ; for,  in  order  to  justify  herself,  she  had  cruelly  slandered  her 
niece  while  she  affected  to  pity  her  misfortunes. 

Madame  de  la  Tour,  whom  no  unprejudiced  person  could  have  seen 
without  feeling  sympathy  and  respect,  was  received  with  the  utmost 
coolness  by  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais  ; and  when  she  painted  to 
him  her  own  situation  and  that  of  her  child,  he  replied,  “We  will 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


15 


see  what  can  be  done — there  are  so  many  to  relieve— why  did  you 
affront  so  respectable  a relation  ? You  have  been  much  to  blame.” 
Madame  de  la  Tour  returned  to  her  cottage,  her  bosom  throbbing 
with  all  the  bitterness  of  disappointment.  When  she  arrived  she 
threw  herself  on  a chair,  and  then,  flinging  her  aunt’s  letter  on  the 
table,  exclaimed  to  her  friend,  “This  is  the  recompense  of  eleven 
years  of  patient  expectation  !”  As  Madame  de  la  Tour  was  the  only 
person  in  the  little  circle  who  could  read,  she  again  took  up  the  letter, 
which  she  read  aloud.  Scarcely  had  she  finished  when  Margaret  ex- 
claimed, “ What  have  we  to  do  with  your  relations  ? Has  God  then 
forsaken  us  ? He  only  is  our  Father  ! Have  we  not  hitherto  been 
Nappy ? Why  then  this  regret?  You  have  no  courage.”  Seeing 
Madame  de  la  Tour  in  tears,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  neck,  and 
pressing  her  in  her  arms,  “ Mjr  dear  friend  !”  cried  she,  “ my  dear 
friend  !”  But  her  emotion  choked  her  utterance. 

At  this  sight  Virginia  burst  into  tears  and  pressed  her  mother’s 
hand  and  Margaret’s  alternately  to  her  lips  and  to  her  heart,  while 
Paul,  with  his  eyes  inflamed  with  anger,  cried,  clasped  his  hands 
together,  and  stamped  with  his  feet,  not  knowing  whom  to  blame  for 
this  scene  of  misery.  The  noise  soon  led  Domingo  and  Mary  to  the 
spot,  and  the  little  habitation  resounded  with  the  cries  of  distress. 
“ Ah,  madam  ! My  good  mistress  ! My  dear  mother  ! Do  not  weep  !” 
Those  tender  proofs  of  affection  at  length  dispelled  Madame  de  la 
Tour’s  sorrow.  She  took  Paul  and  Virginia  in  her  arms,  and,  em- 
bracing them,  cried,  “ You  are  the  cause  of  my  affliction,  and  yet  my 
only  source  of  delight ! Yes,  my  dear  children,  misfortune  has 
reached  me  from  a distance,  but  surely  I am  surrounded  by 
happiness.”  Paul  and  Virginia  did  not  not  und3rstand  this  reflec- 
tion ; but  when  they  saw  that  she  was  calm  they  smiled  and  con- 
tinued to  caress  her.  Thus  tranquillity  was  restored,  and  what  had 
passed  proved  but  a transient  storm,  which  serves  to  give  fresh  ver- 
dure to  a beautiful  spring. 

Although  Madame  de  la  Tour  appeared  calm  in  the  presence  of  her 
family,  she  sometimes  communicated  to  me  the  feelings  that  preyed 
upon  her  mind,  and  soon  after  this  period  gave  me  the  following 
sonnet  * 

SONNET  TO  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Pale  Disappointment ! at  thy  freezing  name 
Chill  fears  in  every  shivering  vein  I prove ; 

My  sinking  pulse  almost  forgets  to  move, 

And  life  almost  forsakes  my  languid  frame  : 

Yet  thee,  relentless  nymph  ! no  more  I blame  : 

Why  do  my  thoughts  ’midst  vain  illusions  rove  ? 

Why  gild  the  charms  of  friendship  and  of  love 
With  the  warm  glow  of  fancy’s  purple  flame? 

When  ruffling  winds  have  some  bright  fane  o’erthrown, 

Which  shone  on  painted  clouds,  or  seem’d  to  shine, 

Shall  the  fond  gazer  dream  for  him  alone 
Those  clouds  were  stable,  and  at  fate  repine  ? 

I feel,  alas  ! the  fault  is  all  my  own, 

And,  ah ! the  cruel  punishment  is  mine  1 


16 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


The  amiable  disposition  of  those  children  unfolded  itself  daily. 
On  a Sunday,  their  mothers  having  gone  at  break  of  day  to  mass,  at 
the  church  of  the  Shaddock  Grove,  the  children  perceived  a negro 
woman  beneath  the  plantains  which  shaded  their  habitation.  She 
appeared  almost  wasted  to  a skeleton,  and  had  no  other  garment  than 
a shred  of  coarse  cloth  thrown  across  her  loins.  She  flung  herself 
at  Virginia’s  feet,  who  waspreparing  the  family  breakfast,  and  cried, 
“ My  good  young  lady,  have  pity  on  a poor  slave.  For  a whole 
month  I have  wandered  among  these  mountains,  half  dead  with 
huuger,  and  often  pursued  by  the  hunters  and  their  dogs.  I fled  from 
my  master,  a rich  planter  of  the  Black  Biver,  who  has  used  me  as 
you  see  and  she  showed  her  body  marked  by  deep  scars  from  the 
lashes  she  had  received.  She  added,  “ I was  going  to  drown  my- 
self ; but  hearing  you  lived  here,  I said  to  myself,  Since  there  are 
still  some  good  white  people  in  this  country,  I need  not  die  yet.” 

Virginia  answered  with  emotion,  “ Take  courage,  unfortunate  creat- 
ure ! here  is  food,”  and  she  gave  her  the  breakfast  she  had  prepared, 
which  the  poor  slave  in  a few  minutes  devoured.  When  her  hunger 
was  appeased,  Virginia  said  to  her,  “ Unhappy  woman  ! will  you  let 
me  go  and  ask  forgiveness  for  you  of  your  master  ? Surely  the  sight 
of  you  will  touch  him  with  pity.  Will  you  show  me  the  way?” 
“ Angel  of  heaven  !”  answered  the  poor  negro  woman,  “ I will  fol 
low  you  where  you  please.”  Virginia  called  her  brother,  and  begged 
him  to  accompany  her.  The  slave  led  the  way,  by  winding  and  diffi- 
cult paths,  through  the  woods,  over  mountains,  which  they  climbed 
with  difficulty,  and  across  rivers,  through  which  they  were  obliged 
to  wade.  At  length  they  reached  the  foot  of  a precipice  upon  the 
borders  of  the  Black  River.  There  they  perceived  a well-built  house, 
surrounded  by  extensive  plantations,  and  a great  number  of  slaves 
employed  at  their  various  labors.  Their  master  was  walking 
among  them  with  a pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a switch  in  his  hand 
He  was  a tall  thin  figure,  of  a brown  complexion  ; his  eyes  were  sunk 
in  his  head,  and  his  dark  eyebrows  were  joined  together.  Virginia, 
holding  Paul  by  the  hand,  drew  near,  and  with  much  emotion  begged 
Mm,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  pardon  his  poor  slave,  who  stood  trem- 
bling a few  paces  behind.  The  man  at  first  paid  little  attention  to  the 
children,  who,  he  saw,  were  meanly  dressed.  But  when  he  observed 
the  elegance  of  Virginia’s  form  and  the  profusion  of  her  beautiful 
light  tresses,  which  had  escaped  from  beneath  her  blue  cap  ; when 
he  heard  the  soft  tone  of  her  voice,  which  trembled,  as  well  as  her 
own  frame,  while  she  implored  his  compassion,  he  took  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  lifting  up  his  stick  swore,  with  a terrible  oath, 
that  he  pardoned  his  slave,  not  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  but  of  her 
who  asked  his  forgiveness.  Virginia  made  a sign  to  the  slave  to  ap- 
proach her  master,  and  instantly  sprung  away,  followed  by  Paul. 

They  climbed  up  the  precipice  they  had  descended,  and  having 
gained  the  summit  seated  themselves  at  the  foot  of  a tree,  overcome 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


17 


with  fatigue,  hunger,  and  thirst.  They  had  left  their  cottage  fasting, 
and  had  walked  five  leagues  since  break  of  day.  Paul  said  to  Vir- 
ginia, “ My  dear  sister,  it  is  past  noon,  and  I am  sure  you  are  thirsty 
and  hungry  ; we  shall  find  no  dinner  here  ; let  us  go  down  the  moun- 
tain again,  and  ask  the  master  of  the  poor  slave  for  some  food.” 
“Oh,  no,”  answered  Virginia,  “he  frightens  me  too  much.  Re- 
member what  mamma  sometimes  says,  The  bread  of  the  wicked  is 
like  stones  in  the  mouth.”  “ What  shall  we  do  then  ?”  said  Paul  ; 
“ these  trees  produce  no  fruit,  and  I shall  not  be  able  to  find  even  a 
tamarind  or  a lemon  to  ref resh  you.  ” Scarcely  had  he  pronounce'! 
these  words  when  they  heard  the  dashing  of  waters  which  fell  from 
a neighboring  rock.  They  ran  thither,  and  having  quenched  their 
thirst  at  this  crystal  spring  they  gathered  a few  cresses  which  grew 
on  the  border  of  the  stream. 

While  they  were  wandering  in  the  woods  in  search  of  more  solid 
nourishment,  Virginia  spied  a young  palm-tree.  The  kind  of  cabbage 
which  is  found  at  the  top  of  this  tree  enfolded  within  its  leaves  forms 
an  excellent  sustenance  ; but  although  the  stalk  of  the  tree  was  not 
thicker  than  a man’s  leg,  it  was  above  sixt}^  feet  in  height.  The 
wood  of  this  tree  is  composed  of  fine  filaments,  but  the  bark  is  so 
hard  that  it  turns  the  edge  of  the  hatchet,  and  Paul  was  not  even 
furnished  with  a knife.  A t length  he  thought  of  setting  fire  to  the 
palm-tree  ; but  a new  difficulty  occurred — he  had  no  steel  with  which 
to  strike  fire,  and  although  the  whole  island  is  covered  with  rocks,  I 
do  not  believe  it  possible  to  find  a flint.  Necessity,  however,  is  fer- 
tile in  expedients,  and  the  most  useful  inventions  have  arisen  from 
men  placed  in  the  most  destitute  situations.  Paul  determined  to 
kindle  a fire  in  the  manner  of  the  negroes.  With  the  sharp  end  of  a 
stone  he  made  a small  hole  in  the  branch  of  a tree  that  was  quite 
dry,  which  he  held  between  his  feet ; he  then  sharpened  another  dry 
branch  of  a different  sort  of  wood,  and  afterward  placing  the  piece 
of  pointed  wood  in  the  small  hole  of  the  branch  which  he  held  with 
his  feet,  and  turning  it  rapidly  between  his  hands,  in  a few  minutes 
smoke  and  sparks  of  fire  issued  from  the  points  of  contact.  Paul 
then  heaped  together  dried  grass  and  branches,  and  set  fire  to  the 
palm-tree,  which  soon  fell  to  the  ground.  The  fire  was  useful  to  him 
in  stripping  off  the  long,  thick,  and  pointed  leaves  within  which  the 
cabbage  was  inclosed. 

Paul  and  Virginia  ate  part  of  the  cabbage  raw,  and  part  dressed 
upon  the  ashes,  which  they  found  equally  palatable.  They  made 
this  frugal  repast  with  delight,  from  the  remembrance  of  the  benevo- 
lent action  they  had  performed  in  the  morning;  yet  their  joy  was 
embittered  by  the  thoughts  of  that  uneasiness  which  their  long  ab- 
sence would  give  their  mothers.  Virginia  often  recurred  to  this  sub- 
ject ; but  Paul,  who  felt  his  strength  renewed  by  their  meal,  assured 
her  that  it  would  not  be  long  before  they  reached  home. 

After  dinner  they  recollected  that  they  had  no  guide,  and  that  they 


18 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


were  ignorant  of  the  way.  Paul,  whose  spirit  was  not  subdued  by 
difficulties,  said  to  Virginia,  “ The  sun  shines  full  upon  our  huts  at 
noon  ; we  must  pass,  as  we  did  this  morning,  over  that  mountain 
with  its  three  points,  which  you  see  yonder.  Come,  let  us  go.” 
This  mountain  is  called  the  Three  Peaks.  Paul  and  Virginia  de- 
scended the  precipice  of  the  Black  River,  on  the  northern  side,  and 
arrived,  after  an  hour’s  walk,  on  the  banks  of  a large  stream. 

Great  part  of  this  island  is  so  little  known,  even  now,  that  many  of 
its  rivers  and  mountains  have  not  yet  received  a name.  The  river,  on 
the  banks  of  which  our  travellers  stood,  rolls  foaming  over  a bed  of 
rocks.  The  noise  of  the  water  frightened  Virginia,  and  she  durst  not 
wade  through  the  stream.  Paul  therefore  took  her  up  in  his  arms, 
and  went  thus  loaded  over  the  slippery  rocks,  which  formed  the  bed 
of  the  river,  careless  of  the  tumultuous  noise  of  its  waters.  “ Do  not 
be  afraid,”  cried  he  to  Virginia  ; “ I feel  very  strong  with  you.  If 
the  inhabitant  of  the  Black  River  had  refused  you  the  pardon  of  his 
slave,  I would  have  fought  with  him.”  “ What !”  answered  Virginia, 
“with  that  great  wicked  man?  To  what  have  I exposed  you! 
Gracious  Heaven  ! how  difficult  it  is  to  do  good,  and  it  is  so  easy  to 
do  wrong  !” 

When  Paul  had  crossed  the  river  he  wished  to  continue  his  journey 
carrying  his  sister,  and  believed  he  was  able  to  climb  in  that  way  the 
mountain  of  the  Three  Peaks,  which  was  still  at  the  distance  of  half 
a league  ; but  his  strength  soon  failed,  and  he  was  obliged  to  set 
down  his  burden  and  to' rest  himself  by  her  side.  Virginia  then  said 
to  him,  “ My  dear  brother,  the  sun  is  going  down  ; you  have  still 
some  strength  left,  but  mine  has  quite  failed  ; do  leave  me  here,  and 
return  home  alone  to  ease  the  fears  of  our  mothers.  ” “Oh,  no,”  said 
Paul,  “ I will  not  leave  you.  If  night  surprises  us  in  this  wood  I 
will  light  a fire,  and  bring  down  another  palm-tree  ; you  shall  eat  the 
cabbage,  and  I will  form  a covering  of  the  leaves  to  shelter  you.” 
In  the  mean  time  V irginia,  being  a little  rested,  pulled  from  the  trunk 
of  an  old  tree,  which  hung  over  the  bank  of  the  river,  some  long 
leaves  of  hart’s-tongue,  which  grew  near  its  roots.  With  those 
leaves  she  made  a sort  of  buskin,  with  which  she  covered  her  feet, 
that  were  bleeding  from  the  sharpness  of  the  stony  paths  ; for  in  her 
eager  desire  to  do  good  she  had  forgot  to  put  on  her  shoes.  Feeling 
her  feet  cooled  by  the  freshness  of  the  leaves,  she  broke  off  a branch 
of  bamboo  and  continued  her  walk,  leaning  with  one  hand  on  the 
staff  and  with  the  other  on  Paul. 

They  walked  on  slowly  through  the  woods  ; but  from  the  height  of 
the  trees  and  the  thickness  of  their  foliage  they  soon  lost  sight  of 
the  mountain  of  the  Three  Peaks,  by  which  they  had  directed  their 
course,  and  even  of  the  sun,  which  was  now  setting.  At  length  they 
wandered,  without  perceiving  it,  from  the  beaten  path  in  which  they 
had  hitherto  walked,  and  found  themselves  in  a labyrinth  of  trees  and 
rocks,  which  appeared  to  have  no  opening.  Paul  made  Virginia  sit 


PAUL  AKD  VIRGINIA. 


19 


down  while  he  ran  backward  and  forward,  half  frantic,  in  search  of  a 
path  which  might  lead  them  out  of  this  thick  wood  ; but  all  his  re- 
searches were  in  vain.  He  climbed  to  the  top  of  a tree,  from  whence 
he  hoped  at  least  to  discern  the  mountain  of  the  Three  Peaks  ; but 
all  he  could  perceive  around  him  were  the  tops  of  trees,  some  of 
which  were  gilded  by  the  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun.  Already  the 
shadows  of  the  mountains  were  spread  over  the  forests  in  the  val- 
leys. The  wind  ceased,  as  it  usually  does,  at  the  evening  hour. 
The  most  profound  silence  reigned  in  those  awful  solitudes,  which 
was  only  interrupted  by  the  cry  of  the  stags,  who  came  to  repose  in 
that  unfrequented  spot.  Paul,  in  the  hope  that  some  hunter  would 
hear  his  voice,  called  out  as  loud  as  he  was  able,  “ Come,  come  to 
the  help  of  Virginia.”  But  the  echoes  of  the  forests  alone  answered 
his  call,  and  repeated  again  and  again,  “ Virginia — Virginia.”  Paul 
at  length  descended  from  the  tree,  overcome  with  fatigue  and  vex- 
ation, and  reflected  how  they  might  best  contrive  to  pass  the  night  in 
that  desert.  But  he  could  find  neither  a fountain,  a palm-tree,  nor 
even  a branch  of  dry  wood  to  kindle  a fire.  He  then  felt,  by  experi- 
ence, the  sense  of  his  own  weakness,  and  began  to  weep.  Virginia 
said  to  him,  “ Do  not  weep,  my  dear  brother,  or  I shall  die  with  grief . 
I am  the  cause  of  all  your  sorrow,  and  of  all  that  our  mothers  suffer 
at  this  moment.  I find  we  ought  to  do  nothing,  not  even  good, 
without  consulting  our  parents.  Oh,  I have  been  very  imprudent  !” 
and  she  began  to  shed  tears.  She  then  said  to  Paul,  “ Let  us  pray  to 
God,  my  dear  brother,  and  he  will  hear  us.” 

Scarcely  had  they  finished  their  prayer  when  they  heard  the  bark- 
ing of  a dog.  “It  is  the  dog  of  some  hunter,”  said  Paul,  “ who 
comes  here  at  night  to  lay  in  wait  for  the  stags.  ” Soon  after  the  dog 
barked  again  with  more  violence.  “ Surely,”  said  Virginia,  “it  is 
Fidele,  our  own  dog  ; yes,  I know  his  voice.  Are  we  then  so  near 
home  ? at  the  foot  of  our  own  mountain  ?’  ’ A moment  after  Fidele 
was  at  their  feet,  barking,  howling,  crying,  and  devouring  them  with 
his  caresses.  Before  they  had  recovered  their  surprise,  they  saw 
Domingo  running  toward  them.  At  the  sight  of  this  good  old  negro, 
who  wept  with  joy,  they  began  to  weep  too,  without  being  able  to 
utter  one  word.  When  Domingo  had  recovered  himself  a little, 

‘ Oh,  my  dear  children,”  cried  he,  “ how  miserable  have  you  made 
your  mothers  ! How  much  were  they  astonished  when  they  re- 
turned from  mass,  where  I went  with  them,  and  not  finding  you  ! 
Mary,  who  was  at  work  at  a little  distance,  could  not  tell  us  where 
jrou  were  gone.  I ran  backward  and  forward  about  the  plantation, 
not  knowing  where  to  look  for  you.  At  last  I took  some  of  your  old 
clothes,  and  showing  them  to  Fidele,  the  poor  animal,  as  if  he  un- 
derstood me,  immediately  began  to  scent  your  path,  and  conducted 
me,  continually  wagging  his  tail,  to  the  Black  River.  It  was  there 
a planter  told  me  that  you  had  brought  back  a negro  woman,  his 
slave,  and  that  he  had  granted  you  her  pardon.  But  what  pardon  J 


20 


PAUL  AKD  VIRGINIA. 


he  showed  her  to  me  with  her  feet  chained  to  a block  of  wood,  and 
an  iron  collar  with  three  hooks  fastened  round  her  neck  ! 

“ From  thence  Fidele,  still  on  the  scent,  led  me  up  the  precipice  of 
the  Black  River,  where  he  again  stopped  and  barked  with  all  his 
might.  This  was  on  the  brink  of  a spring,  near  a fallen  palm-tree, 
and  close  to  a fire  which  was  still  smoking.  At  last  he  led  me  to  this 
very  spot.  We  are  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  of  the  Three  Peaks, 
and  still  four  leagues  from  home.  Come,  eat,  and  gather  strength.” 
He  then  presented  them  with  cakes,  fruits,  and  a very  large  gourd 
filled  with  a liquor  composed  of  wine,  water,  lemon -juice,  sugar, 
and  nutmeg,  which  their  mothers  had  prepared.  Virginia  sighed  at 
the  recollection  of  the  poor  slave,  and  at  the  uneasiness  which  they 
had  given  their  mothers.  She  repeated  several  times,  “ Oh,  how 
difficult  it  is  to  do  good  !” 

While  she  and  Paul  were  taking  refreshment,  Domingo  kindled  a 
fire,  and  having  sought  among  the  rocks  for  a particular  kind  of 
crooked  wood,  which  burns  when  quite  green,  throwing  out  a great 
blaze,  he  made  a torch,  which  he  lighted,  it  being  already  night. 
But  when  they  prepared  to  continue  their  journey  a new  difficulty 
occurred  : Paul  and  Virginia  could  no  longer  walk,  their  feet  being 
violently  swelled  and  inflamed.  Domingo  knew  not  whether  it  were 
best  to  leave  them  and  go  in  search  of  help,  or  remain  and  pass  the 
night  with  them  on  that  spot.  “ What  is  become  of  the  time,”  said 
he,  “when  I used  to  carry  you  both  together  in  my  arms  ? But 
now  you  are  grown  big,  and  I am  grown  old.”  While  he  was  in 
this  perplexity  a troop  of  Maroon  negroes  appeared  at  the  distance  of 
twenty  paces.  The  chief  of  the  band,  approaching  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia, said  to  them,  “ Good  little  white  people,  do  not  be  afraid.  We 
saw  you  pass  this  morning  with  a negro  woman  of  the  Black  River. 
You  went  to  ask  pardon  for  her  of  her  wicked  master,  and  we,  in 
return  for  this,  will  carry  you  home  upon  our  shoulders.”  He  then 
made  a sign,  and  four  of  the  strongest  negroes  immediately  formed  a 
sort  of  litter  with  the  branches  of  trees  and  lianas,  in  which,  having 
seated  Paul  and  Virginia,  they  placed  it  upon  their  shoulders.  Do- 
mingo marched  in  front,  carrying  his  lighted  torch,  and  they  pro- 
ceeded amid  the  rejoicings  of  the  whole  troop,  and  overwhelmed 
with  their  benedictions.  Virginia,  affected  by  this  scene,  said  to 
Paul,  with  emotion,  “ Oh,  my  dear  brother  ! God  never  leaves  a good 
action  without  reward.” 

It  was  midnight  when  they  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  on 
the  ridges  of  which  several  fires  were  lighted.  Scarcely  had  they  be- 
gun to  ascend  when  they  heard  voices  crying  out,  “Is  it  you,  my 
children?”  They  answered,  together  with  the  negroes,  “ Yes,  it  is 
us  and  soon  after  perceived  their  mothers  and  Mary  coming 
toward  them  with  lighted  sticks  in  their  hands.  “ Unhappy  chil- 
dren !”  cried  Madame  de  la  Tour,  “from  whence  do  you  come  ? 
What  agonies  you  have  made  us  suffer  1”  “We  come,”  said  Vir- 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


21 


ginia,  “ from  the  Black  River,  where  we  went  to  ask  pardon  for  a 
poor  Maroon  slave,  to  whom  I gave  our  breakfast  this  morning 
because  she  was  dying  of  hunger  ; and  these  Maroon  negroes  have 
brought  us  home.  ’ ’ Madame  de  la  Tour  embraced  her  daughter  with- 
out being  able  to  speak  ; and  Virginia,  who  felt  her  face  wet  with 
her  mother’s  tears,  exclaimed,  “You  repay  me  for  all  the  hardships 
I have  suffered.”  Margaret,  in  a transport  of  delight,  pressed  Paul  in 
her  arms,  crying,  “ And  you  also,  my  dear  child  ! you  have  done  a 
good  action.”  When  they  reached  the  hut  with  their  children  they 
gave  plenty  of  food  to  the  negroes,  who  returned  to  their  woods,  after 
praying  the  blessing  of  Heaven  might  descend  on  those  good  white 
people. 

Every  day  was  to  those  families  a day  of  tranquillity  and  of  happi- 
ness. Neither  ambition  nor  envy  disturbed  their  repose.  In  this 
island,  where,  as  in  all  the  European  colonies,  every  malignant  anec- 
dote is  circulated  with  avidity,  their  virtues  and  even  their  names 
were  unknown.  Only  when  a traveller  on  the  road  of  the  Shaddock 
Grove  inquired  of  any  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  plain,  “ Who  lives  in 
those  two  cottages  above  ?”  he  was  always  answered,  even  by  those 
who  did  not  know  them,  “ They  are  good  people  ” Thus  the  mod- 
est violet,  concealed  beneath  the  thorny  bushes,  sheds  its  fragrance 
while  itself  remains  unseen. 

Doing  good  appeared  to  those  amiable  families  to  be  the  chief  pur- 
pose of  life.  Solitude,  far  from  having  blunted  their  beneficient  feel- 
ings or  rendered  their  dispositions  morose,  had  left  their  hearts  open 
to  every  tender  affection.  The  contemplation  of  nature  filled  their 
minds  with  enthusiastic  delight.  They  adored  the  bounty  of  that 
Providence  which  had  enabled  them  to  spread  abundance  and  beauty 
amid  those  barren  rocks,  and  to  enjoy  those  pure  and  simple  pleas- 
ures which  are  ever  grateful  and  ever  new.  It  was,  probably,  in 
those  dispositions  of  mind  that  Madame  de  la  Tour  composed  the  fol- 
lowing sonnet : 

SONNET  TO  SIMPLICITY. 

Nymph  of  the  desert ! on  this  lonely  shore, 

Simplicity,  thy  blessings  still  are  mine, 

And  all  thou  canst  not  give,  I pleased,  resign, 

For  all  beside  canst  soothe  my  soul  no  more. 

I ask  no  lavish  heaps  to  swell  my  store, 

And  purchase  pleasures  far  remote  from  thine. 

Ye  joys,  for  which  the  race  of  Europe  pine, 

Ah ! not  for  me  your  studied  grandeur  pour : 

Let  me,  where  yon  tall  cliffs  are  rudely  piled. 

Where  towers  the  palm  amidst  the  mountain  trees, 

Where,  pendent  from  the  steep,  with  graces  wild, 

The  blue  liana  floats  upon  the  breeze, 

Still  haunt  those  bold  recesses,  Nature’s  child. 

Where  thy  majestic  charms  ray  spirit  seize  l 

Paul,  at  twelve  years  of  age,  was  stronger  and  more  intelligent 
than  Europeans  are  at  fifteen,  and  had  embellished  the  plantations 


22 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


which  Domingo  had  only  cultivated.  He  had  gone  with  him  to  the 
neighboring  woods  and  rooted  up  3roung  plants  of  lemon-trees, 
oranges,  and  tamarinds,  the  round  heads  of  which  are  of  so  fresh  a 
green,  together  with  date  palm-trees,  producing  fruit  filled  with  a 
sweet  cream,  which  has  the  fine  perfume  of  the  orange-flower. 
Those  trees,  which  were  already  of  a considerable  size,  he  planted 
round  this  little  inclosure.  He  had  also  sown  the  seeds  of  many 
trees  wdiich  the  second  year  bear  flowers  or  fruit— the  agathis, 
encircled  with  long  clusters  of  white  flowers,  which  hang  upon  it  like 
the  crystal  pendents  of  a lustre  ; the  Persian  lilac,  which  lifts  high 
in  air  its  gray  flax-colored  branches  ; the  papaw-tree,  the  trunk  of 
which,  without  branches,  forms  a column  set  round  with  green  mel- 
ons, bearing  on  their  heads  large  leaves  like  those  of  the  fig-tree. 

The  seeds  and  kernels  of  the  gum-tree,  terminalia,  mangoes,  alli- 
gator pears,  the  guava,  the  bread-tree,  and  the  narrow-leaved 
eugenia,  were  planted  with  profusion  ; and  the  greater  number  of 
those  trees  already  afforded  to  their  young  cultivator  both  shade  and 
fruit.  His  industrious  hands  had  diffused  the  riches  of  nature  even 
on  the  most  barren  parts  of  the  plantation.  Several  kinds  of  aloes, 
the  common  Indian  fig,  adorned  with  yellow  flowers  spotted  with 
red,  and  the  thorny  five-angled  touch-thistle  grew  upon  the  dark  sum- 
mits of  the  rocks,  and  seemed  to  aim  at  reaching  the  long  lianas, 
which,  loaded  with  blue  or  crimson  flowers,  hung  scattered  over  the 
steepest  part  of  the  mountain.  Those  trees  were  disposed  in  such  a 
manner  that  you  could  command  the  whole  at  one  view.  He  had 
placed  in  the  middle  of  this  hollow  the  plants  of  the  lowest  growth  : 
behind  grew  the  shrubs  ; then  trees  of  an  ordinary  height,  above 
which  rose  majestically  the  venerable  lofty  groves  which  border  the 
circumference.  Thus  from  its  centre  this  extensive  inclosure  ap- 
peared like  a verdant  amphitheatre  spread  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
containing  a variety  of  vegetables,  a chain  of  meadow-land,  and 
fields  of  rice  and  corn.  In  blending  those  vegetable  productions  to 
his  own  taste  he  followed  the  designs  of  Nature.  Guided  by  her  sug- 
gestions, he  had  thrown  upon  the  rising  grounds  such  seeds  as  the 
winds  might  scatter  over  the  heights,  and  near  the  borders  of  the 
springs  such  grains  as  float  upon  the  waters.  Every  plant  grew  in 
its  proper  soil,  and  every  spot  seemed  decorated  by  her  hands.  The 
waters,  which  rushed  from  the  summits  of  the  rocks,  formed 
in  some  parts  of  the  valley  limpid  fountains,  and  in  other  parts  were 
spread  into  large  clear  mirrors,  which  reflected  the  bright  verdure, 
the  trees  in  blossom,  the  bending  rocks,  and  the  azure  heavens. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  irregularity  of  the  ground,  most  of  these 
plantations  were  easy  of  access.  We  had,  indeed,  all  given  him  our 
advice  and  assistance,  in  order  to  accomplish  this  end.  He  had 
formed  a path  which  winded  round  the  valley,  and  of  which  various 
ramifications  led  from  the  circumference  to  the  centre.  He  had 
drawn  some  advantage  from  the  most  rugged  spots  ; and  had 


PAUL  ANT)  VIRGINIA. 


23 


blended,  in  harmonious  variety,  smooth  walks  with  the  asperities  of 
the  soil,  and  wild  with  domestic  productions.  With  that  immense 
quantity  of  rolling  stones  which  now  block  up  those  paths,  and 
which  are  scattered  over  most  of  the  ground  of  this  island,  he  formed 
here  and  there  pyramids  ; and  at  their  base  he  laid  earth  and  planted 
the  roots  of  rose-bushes,  the  Barbadoes  flower-fence,  and  other 
shrubs  which  love  to  climb  the  rocks.  In  a short  time  those  gloomy, 
shapeless  pyramids  were  covered  with  verdure  or  with  the  glowing 
lints  of  the  most  beautiful  flowers.  The  hollow  recesses  of  aged 
trees,  which  bent  over  the  borders  of  the  stream,  formed  vaulted 
caves  impenetrable  to  the  sun,  and  where  you  might  enjoy  coolness 
during  the  heats  of  the  day.  That  path  led  to  a clump  of  forest 
trees,  in  the  centre  of  which  grew  a cultivated  tree,  loaded  with  fruit. 
Here  was  a field  ripe  with  corn,  there  an  orchard.  From  that  avenue 
you  had  a view  of  the  cottages  ; from  this,  of  the  inaccessible  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain.  Beneath  that  tufted  bower  of  gum-trees,  inter- 
woven with  lianas,  no  object  could  be  discerned  even  at  noon  ; while 
the  point  of  the  neighboring  rock,  which  projects  from  the  moun- 
tain, commanded  a view  of  the  whole  inclosure,  and  of  the  distant 
ocean,  where  sometimes  we  spied  a vessel  coming  from  Europe,  or 
returning  thither.  On  this  rock  the  two  families  assembled  in  the 
evening  and  enjoyed  in  silence  the  freshness  of  the  air,  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers,  the  murmurs  of  the  fountains,  and  the  last  blended 
harmonies  of  light  and  shade. 

Nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  than  the  names  which  were  be- 
stowed upon  some  of  the  charming  retreats  of  this  labyrinth.  That 
rock  of  which  I was  speaking,  and  from  which  my  approach  was 
discerned  at  a considerable  distance,  was  called  the  Discovery  of 
Friendship.  Paul  and  Virginia,  amid  their  sports,  had  planted  a 
bamboo  on  that  spot ; and  whenever  they  saw  me  coming  they 
hoisted  a little  white  handkerchief,  by  way  of  signal  of  my  approach, 
as  they  had  seen  a dag  hoisted  on  the  neighboring  mountain  at  the 
sight  of  a vessel  at  sea.  The  idea  struck  me  of  engraving  an  inscrip- 
tion upon  the  stalk  of  this  reed.  Whatever  pleasure  I have  felt  dur- 
ing my  travels,  at  the  sight  of  a statue  or  monument  of  antiquity,  I 
have  felt  still  more  in  reading  a well-written  inscription.  It  seems  to 
me  as  if  a human  voice  issued  from  the  stone,  and,  making  itself 
heard  through  the  lapse  of  ages,  addressed  man  in  the  midst  of  a 
desert,  and  told  him  that  he  was  not  alone  ; that  other  men,  on  that 
very  spot,  have  felt  and  thought  and  suffered  like  himself.  If  the 
inscription  belongs  to  an  ancient  nation,  which  no  longer  exists,  it 
leads  the  soul  through  infinite  space,  and  inspires  the  feeling  of  its 
immortality,  by  showing  that  a thought  has  survived  the  ruins  of  an 
empire. 

I inscribed  then  on  the  little  mast  of  Paul  and  Virginia’s  flag  those 
lines  of  Horace  : 


24 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


Fratres  Helen®,  luclda  sidera, 

Ventorumque  regat  pater, 

Obstrictis  aliis,  pneter  lapyga. 

“ May  the  brothers  of  Helen,  lucid  stars  like  you,  and  the  Father 
of  the  Winds,  guide  you  ; and  may  you  only  feel  the  breath  of  the 
zephyr.  ’ N 

I engraved  this  line  of  Virgil  upon  the  bark  of  a gum-tree,  under 
the  shade  of  which  Paul  sometimes  seated  himself,  in  order  to  con- 
template the  agitated  sea  : 

Fortunatus  et  ille  deos  qui  novit  agrestes  ! 

“ Happy  art  thou,  my  son,  to  know  only  the  pastoral  divinities.” 

And  above  the  door  of  Madame  de  la  Tour’s  cottage,  where  the 
families  used  to  assemble,  I placed  this  line  : 

At  secura  quies,  et  nescia  fallere  vita. 

“ Here  is  a calm  conscience,  and  a life  ignorant  of  deceit.’ ’ 

But  Virginia  did  not  approve  of  my  Latin  ; she  said  that  what  I 
had  placed  at  the  foot  of  her  weather  flag  was  too  long  and  too 
learned.  “ I should  have  liked  better,”  added  she,  “ to  have  seen  in- 
scribed, Always  agitated,  yet  ever  constant .” 

The  sensibility  of  those  happy  families  extended  itself  to  every- 
thing around  them.  They  had  given  names  the  most  tender  to  ob- 
jects in  appearance  the  most  indifferent.  A border  of  orange,  plan- 
tain, and  bread- trees,  planted  round  a greensward  where  Virginia 
and  Paul  sometimes  danced,  was  called  Concord.  An  old  tree,  be- 
neath the  shade  of  which  Madame  de  la  Tour  and  Margaret  used  to 
relate  their  misfortunes,  was  called  The  Tears  Wiped  Away.  They 
gave  the  names  of  Brittany  and  Normandy  to  little  portions  of 
ground  where  they  had  so>vn  corn,  strawberries,  and  peas.  Do- 
mingo and  Mary,  wishing,  in  imitation  of  their  mistresses,  to  recall 
the  places  of  their  birth  in  Africa,  gave  the  names  of  Angola  and 
Foullepointe  to  the  spots  where  grew  the  herb  with  which  they  wove 
baskets,  and  where  they  had  planted  a calbassia-tree.  Thus  with 
the  productions  of  their  respective  climates  those  exiled  families 
cherished  the  dear  illusions  which  bind  us  to  our  native  country,  and 
softened  their  regrets  in  a foreign  land.  Alas  ! I have  seen,  ani- 
mated by  a thousand  soothing  appellations,  those  trees,  those  foun- 
tains, those  stones  which  are  now  overthrown,  which  now,  like  the 
plains  of  Greece,  present  nothing  but  ruins  and  affecting  remem- 
brances!. 

Neither  the  neglect  of  her  European  friends  nor  the  delightful 
romantic  spot  which  she  inhabited  could  banish  from  the  mind  of 
Madame  de  la  Tour  this  tender  attachment  to  her  native  country. 
While  the  luxurious  fruits  of  this  climate  gratified  the  taste  of  her 
family,  she  delighted  to  rear  those  which  were  more  grateful,  only 
because  they  were  the  productions  of  her  early  home.  Among  other 
little  pieces  addressed  to  flowers  and  fruits  of  northern  climes,  I 
found  the  following  sonnet  to  the  strawberry  : 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


25 


SONNET  TO  THE  STRAWBERRY. 

The  strawberry  blooms  upon  its  lowly  bed  : 

Plant  of  my  native  soil ! The  lime  may  fling 
More  potent  fragrance  on  the  zephyr’s  wing, 

The  milky  cocoa  richer  juices  shed, 

The  white  guava  lovelier  blossoms  spread  ; 

But  not,  like  thee,  to  fond  remembrance  bring 
The  vanish’d  hours  of  life’s  enchanting  spring  : 

Short  calendar  of  joys  forever  fled  ! 

Thou  bidst  the  scenes  of  childhood  rise  to  view, 

The  wild-wood  path  which  fancy  loves  to  trace, 

Where,  veil’d  in  leaves,  thy  fruit,  of  rosy  hue, 

Lurk’d  on  its  pliant  stem  with  modest  grace. 

But,  ah  ! when  thought  would  later  years  renew 
Alas  ! successive  sorrows  crowd  the  space. 

But  perhaps  the  most  charming  spot  of  this  inclosure  was  that 
which  was  called  the  Repose  of  Virginia.  At  the  foot  of  the  rock 
which  bore  the  name  of  the  Discovery  of  Friendship  is  a nook,  from 
whence  issues  a fountain,  forming  near  its  source  a little  spot  of 
marshy  soil  in  the  midst  of  a field  of  rich  grass.  At  the  time  Mar- 
garet was  delivered  of  Paul,  I made  her  a present  of  an  Indian-  cocoa 
which  had  been  given  me,  and  which  she  planted  on  the  border  of 
this  fenny  ground,  in  order  that  the  tree  might  one  day  serve  to 
mark  the  epoch  of  her  son’s  birth.  Madame  de  la  Tour  planted  an- 
other cocoa  with  the  same  view  at  the  birth  of  Virginia.  Those 
fruits  produced  two  cocoa-trees,  which  formed  all  the  records  of  the 
two  families  ; one  was  called  the  tree  of  Paul,  the  other  the  tree  of 
Virginia.  They  grew  in  the  same  proportion  as  the  two  young  per- 
sons, of  an  unequal  height ; but  they  rose,  at  the  end  of  twelve 
years,  above  the  cottages.  Already  their  tender  stalks  were  inter- 
woven, and  their  young  branches  of  cocoas  hung  over  the  basin  of 
the  fountain.  Except  this  little  plantation,  the  nook  of  the  rock  had 
been  left  as  it  was  decorated  by  nature.  On  its  brown  and  humid 
sides  large  plants  of  maidenhair  glistened  with  their  green  and  dark 
stars,  and  tufts  of  wave-leaved  liart’s-tongue,  suspended  like  long 
ribbons  of  purpled  green,  floated  on  the  winds.  Near  this  grew  a 
chain  of  the  Madagascar  periwinkle,  the  flowers  of  which  resemble 
the  gillyflower,  and  the  long-podded  capsicum,  the  cloves  of  which 
are  of  the  color  of  blood,  and  more  glowing  than  coral.  The  herb  of 
balm,  with  its  leaves  within  the  heart,  and  the  sweet  basil,  which  has 
the  odor  of  the  gillyflower,  exhaled  the  most  delicious  perfumes.  From 
the  steep  summit  of  the  mountain  hung  the  graceful  lianas,  like  a 
floating  drapery,  forming  magnificent  canopies  of  verdure  upon  the 
sides  of  the  rocks.  The  sea-birds,  allured  by  the  stillness  of  those 
retreats,  resorted  thither  to  pass  the  night.  At  the  hour  of  sunset  we 
perceived  the  curlew  and  the  stint  skimming  along  the  sea  shore  ; the 
cardinal  poised  high  in  air,  and  the  white  bird  of  the  tropic,  which 
abandons,  with  the  star  of  day,  the  solitudes  of  the  Indian  Ocean. 
Virginia  loved  to  repose  upon  the  border  of  this  fountain  decorated 


26 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


with  wild  and  sublime  magnificence.  She  often  seated  herself  be- 
neath the  shade  of  the  two  cocoa-trees,  and  there  she  sometimes  led 
her  goats  to  graze.  While  she  prepared  cheeses  of  their  milk,  she 
loved  to  see  them  browse  on  the  maidenhair  which  grew  upon  the 
steep  sides  of  the  rock,  and  liaug  suspended  upon  one  of  its  cornices, 
as  on  a pedestal.  Paul,  observing  that  Virginia  was  fond  of  this 
spot,  brought  thither  from  the  neighboring  forest  a great  variety  of 
birds’-nests.  The  old  birds,  following  their  young,  established  them- 
selves in  this  new  colony.  Virginia,  at  stated  times,  distributed 
among  them  grains  of  rice,  millet,  and  maize.  As  soon  as  she  ap- 
peared, the  whistling  blackbird,  the  amadavid  bird,  the  note  of 
which  is  so  soft,  the  cardinal,  the  black  frigate  bird,  with  its  plum- 
mage  the  color  of  flame,  forsook  their  bushes  ; the  paroquet,  green  as 
an  emerald,  descended  from  the  neighboring  fan-palms  ; the  part- 
ridge ran  along  the  grass  ; all  advanced  promiscuously  toward  her, 
like  a brood  of  chickens  ; and  she  and  Paul  delighted  to  observe 
their  sports,  their  repasts,  and  their  loves. 

Amiable  children  1 thus  passed  your  early  days  in  innocence,  and 
in  the  exercise  of  benevolence.  How  many  times,  on  this  very  spot, 
have  your  mothers,  pressing  you  in  their  arms,  blessed  Heaven  for 
the  consolations  your  unfolding  virtues  prepared  for  their  declining 
years,  while  already  they  enjoyed  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  you  be- 
gin life  under  the  most  happy  auspices  ! How  many  times,  beneath 
the  shade  of  those  rocks,  have  I partaken  with  them  of  your  rural 
repasts,  which  cost  no  animal  its  life  ! Gourds  filled  with  milk, 
fresh  eggs,  cakes  of  rice  placed  upon  plantain-leaves,  baskets  loaded 
with  mangoes,  oranges,  dates,  pomegranates,  pineapples,  furnished 
at  the  same  time  the  most  wholesome  food,  the  most  beautiful  colors, 
and  the  most  delicious  juices. 

The  conversation  was  gentle  and  innocent  as  the  repasts.  Paul 
often  talked  of  the  labors  of  the  day  and  those  of  the  morrow.  He 
was  continually  forming  some  plan  of  accommodation  for  their  little 
society.  Here  he  discovered  that  the  paths  were  rough  ; there  that 
the  family  circle  was  ill  seated  ; sometimes  the  young  arbors  did  not 
afford  sufficient  shade,  and  Virginia  might  be  better  pleased  else- 
where. 

In  the  rainy  seasons  the  two  families  assembled  together  in  the 
hut,  and  employed  themselves  in  weaving  mats  of  grass  and  baskets 
of  bamboo.  Pakes,  spades,  and  hatchets  were  ranged  along  the 
walls  in  the  most  perfect  order  ; and  near  these  instruments  of  agri- 
culture were  placed  the  productions  which  were  the  fruits  of  labor — 
sacks  of  rice,  sheaves  of  corn,  and  baskets  of  the  plantain  fruit. 
Some  degree  of  luxury  is  usually  united  with  plenty,  and  Virginia 
was  taught  by  her  mother  and  Margaret  to  prepare  sherbet  and  cor. 
dials  from  the  juice  of  the  sugar-cane,  the  orange,  and  the  citron. 

When  night  came,  tli-ose  families  supped  together  by  the  light  of 
a lamp,  after  which  Madame  de  la  Tour  or  Margaret  related  histo- 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


27 


ries  of  travellers  lost  daring  the  night  in  such  of  the  forests  of  Eu- 
rope as  are  infested  by  banditti,  or  told  a dismal  tale  of  some  ship- 
wrecked  vessel  thrown  by  the  tempest  upon  the  rocks  of  a desert 
island.  To  these  recitals  their  children  listened  with  eager  sensibility, 
and  earnestly  begged  that  Heaven  would  grant  they  might  one  day 
have  the  joy  of  showing  their  hospitality  toward  such  unfortunate 
persons.  At  length  the  two  families  separated  and  retired  to  rest, 
'inpatient  to  meet  again  the  next  morning.  Sometimes  they  were 
’ulled  to  repose  by  the  beating  rains  which  fell  in  torrents  upon  the 
roofs  of  their  cottages,  and  sometimes  by  the  hollow  winds,  which 
wrought  to  their  ear  the  distant  murmur  of  the  waves  breaking  upon 
die  shore.  They  blessed  God  for  their  personal  safety,  of  which 
)heir  feeling  became  stronger  from  the  idea  of  remote  danger. 

Madame  de  la  Tour  occasionally  read  aloud  some  affecting  history 
of  the  Old  or  New  Testament.  Her  auditors  reasoned  but  little  upon 
those  sacred  books,  for  their  theology  consisted  in  sentiment,  like 
that  of  nature,  and  their  morality  in  action,  like  that  of  the  Gospel. 
Those  families  had  no  particular  days  devoted  to  pleasure,  and  others 
to  sadness.  Every  day  was  to  them  a holiday,  and  all  which  sur- 
rounded them  one  holy  temple,  where  they  forever  adored  an  Infi- 
nite Intelligence,  the  friend  of  human  kind.  A sentiment  of  confi- 
dence in  his  supreme  power  filled  their  minds  with  consolation  under 
the  past,  with  fortitude  for  the  present,  and  with  hope  for  the  future. 
Thus,  compelled  by  misfortune  to  return  to  a state  of  nature,  those 
women  had  unfolded  in  their  own  bosoms,  and  in  those  of  their  chil- 
dren, the  feelings  which  are  most  natural  to  the  human  mind,  and 
which  are  our  best  support  under  evil. 

But  as  clouds  sometimes  arise  which  cast  a gloom  over  the  best 
regulated  tempers,  whenever  melancholy  took  possession  of  any 
member  of  this  little  society,  the  rest  endeavored  to  banish  painful 
thoughts  rather  by  sentiment  than  by  arguments.  Margaret  exerted 
her  gayety,  Madame  de  la  Tour  employed  her  mild  theology,  Virginia 
her  tender  caresses,  Paul  his  cordial  and  engaging  frankness.  Even 
Mary  and  Domingo  hastened  to  offer  their  succor,  and  to  weep  with 
those  that  wept.  Thus  weak  plants  are  interwoven  in  order  to  resist 
the  tempests. 

During  the  fine  season  they  went  every  Sunday  to  the  church  of 
the  Shaddock  Grove,  the  steeple  of  which  you  see  yonder  upon  the 
plain.  After  service  the  poor  often  came  to  require  some  kind  office 
at  their  hands.  Sometimes  an  unhappy  creature  sought  their  advice, 
sometimes  a child  led  them  to  its  sick  mother  in  the  neighborhood. 
They  always  took  with  them  remedies  for  the  ordinary  diseases  of 
the  couutry,  which  they  administered  in  that  soothing  manner  which 
stamps  so  much  value  upon  the  smallest  favors.  Above  all,  they 
succeeded  in  banishing  the  disorders  of  the  mind,  which  are  so  intol- 
erable in  solitude  and  under  the  infirmities  of  a weakened  frame 
Madame  de  la  Tour  spoke  with  such  sublime  confidence  of  the 


28 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


Divinity  that  the  sick,  while  listening  to  her,  believed  that  he  was 
present.  Virginia  often  returned  home  with  her  eyes  wet  with 
tears  and  her  heart  overflowing  with  delight,  having  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  good.  After  those  visits  of  charity  they  sometimes 
prolonged  their  way  by  the  Sloping  Mountain  till  they  reached  my 
dwelling,  where  I had  prepared  dinner  for  them  upon  the  banks  of 
the  little  river  which  glides  near  my  cottage.  I produced  on  those 
occasions  some  bottles  of  old  wine,  in  order  to  heighten  the  gayety  of 
our  Indian  repast  by  the  cordial  productions  of  Europe.  Sometimes 
we  met  upon  the  sea-shore,  at  the  mouth  of  little  rivers,  which  are 
here  scarcely  larger  than  brooks.  We  brought  from  the  plantation 
our  vegetable  provisions,  to  which  we  added  such  as  the  sea  fur- 
nished in  great  variety.  Seated  upon  a rock,  beneath  the  shade  of 
the  velvet  sunflower,  we  heard  the  mountain  billows  break  at  our 
feet  with  a dashing  noise,  and  sometimes  on  that  spot  we  listened  to 
the  plaintive  strains  of  the  water  curlew.  Madame  de  la  Tour  an- 
swered his  sorrowful  notes  in  the  following  sonnet  : 

SONNET  TO  THE  CURLEW. 

Sooth’d  by  the  murmurs  on  the  sea-beat  shore, 

His  dun  gray  plumage  floating  to  the  gale, 

The  curlew  blends  his  melancholy  wail 
With  those  hoarse  sounds  the  rushing  waters  pour. 

Like  thee,  congenial  bird  ! my  steps  explore 
The  bleak  lone  sea-beach  or  the  rocky  dale, 

And  shun  the  orange-bower,  the  myrtle  vale, 

Whose  gay  luxuriance  suits  my  soul  no  more. 

I love  the  ocean’s  broad  expanse,  when  dress’d 
In  limpid  clearness,  or  when  tempests  blow, 

When  the  smooth  currents  on  its  placid  breast 
Flow  calm,  as  my  past  moments  used  to  flow  ; 

Or  when  its  troubled  waves  refuse  to  rest, 

And  seem  the  symbol  of  my  present  woe. 

Our  repasts  were  succeeded  by  the  songs  and  dances  of  the  two 
young  people.  Virginia  sang  the  happiness  of  pastoral  life,  and  the 
misery  of  those  who  were  impelled  by  avarice  to  cross  the  furious 
ocean  rather  than  cultivate  the  earth  and  enjoy  its  peaceful  boun- 
ties. Sometimes  she  performed  a pantomime  with  Paul,  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  negroes.  The  first  language  of  man  is  pantomime  ; it  is 
known  to  all  nations,  and  is  so  natural  and  so  expressive  that  the  chil- 
dren of  the  European  inhabitants  catch  it  with  facility  from  the 
negroes.  Virginia  recalling,  among  the  histories  which  her  mother 
had  read  to  her,  those  which  had  affected  her  most  represented  the 
principal  events  with  beautiful  simplicity.  Sometimes  at  the  sound 
of  Domingo’s  tantam  she  appeared  upon  the  greensward,  bearing  a 
pitcher  upon  her  head,  and  advanced  with  a timid  step  toward  the 
source  of  a neighboring  fountain,  to  draw  water.  Domingo  and 
Mary,  who  personated  the  shepherds  of  Midian,  forbade  her  to  ap- 
pioach,  and  repulsed  her  sternly.  Upon  which  Paul  flew  to  her 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


29 


succor,  beat  away  the  shepherds,  filled  Virginia’s  pitcher,  and  placing 
it  upon  her  head,  bound  her  brows  at  the  same  time  with  a wreath  of 
the  red  flowers  of  the  Madagascar  periwinkle,  which  served  to 
heighten  the  delicacy  of  her  skin.  Then  joining  their  sports,  I took 
upon  me  the  part  of  Raguel,  and  bestowed  upon  Paul  my  daughter 
Zephora  in  marriage. 

Sometimes  Virginia  represented  the  unfortunate  Ruth,  returning 
poor  and  widowed  to  her  own  country,  where,  after  so  long  an  ab- 
sence, she  found  herself  as  in  a foreign  land.  Domingo  and  Mary 
personated  the  reapers.  Virginia  followed  their  steps,  gleaning  here 
and  there  a few  ears  of  corn.  She  was  interrogated  by  Paul  with 
the  gravity  of  a patriarch,  and  answered,  with  a faltering  voice,  his 
questions.  Soon  touched  with  compassion,  he  granted  an  asylum  to 
innocence,  and  hospitality  to  misfortune.  He  filled  Virginia’s  lap 
with  plenty  ; and,  leading  her  toward  us  as  before  the  old  men  in 
the  city,  declared  his  purpose  to  take  her  in  marriage.  At  this  scene 
Madame  de  la  Tour,  recalling  the  desolate  situation  in  which  she  had 
been  left  by  her  relations,  her  widowhood,  the  kind  reception  she 
had  met  with  from  Margaret,  succeeded  by  the  soothing  hope  of  a 
happy  union  between  their  children,  could  not  forbear  weeping  ; and 
the  sensations  which  such  recollections  excited  led  the  whole  audi- 
ence to  pour  forth  those  luxurious  tears  which  have  their  mingled 
source  in  sorrow  and  in  joy. 

These  dramas  were  performed  with  such  an  air  of  reality  that  you 
might  have  fancied  yourself  transported  to  the  plains  of  Syria  or  of 
Palestine.  We  were  not  unfurnished  with  either  decorations,  lights, 
or  an  orchestra,  suitable  to  the  representation.  The  scene  was  gen- 
erally placed  in  an  opening  of  the  forest,  where  such  parts  of  the 
wood  as  were  penetrable  formed  around  us  numerous  arcades  of 
foliage,  beneath  which  we  were  sheltered  from  the  heat  during  the 
whole  day  ; but  when  the  sun  descended  toward  the  horizon,  its 
rays,  broken  upon  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  diverged  among  the  shad- 
ows of  the  forest  in  strong  lines  of  light,  which  produced  the  most 
sublime  effect.  Sometimes  the  whole  of  its  broad  disk  appeared  at 
the  end  of  an  avenue,  spreading  one  dazzling  mass  of  brightness. 
The  foliage  of  the  trees,  illuminated  from  beneath  by  its  saffron 
beams,  glowed  with  the  lustre  of  the  topaz  and  the  emerald.  Their 
brown  and  mossy  trunks  appeared  transformed  into  columns  of  an- 
tique bronze  ; and  the  birds,  which  had  retired  in  silence  to  their 
leafy  shades  to  pass  the  night,  surprised  to  see  the  radiance  of  a sec- 
ond morning,  hailed  the  star  of  day  with  innumerable  carols. 

Night  soon  overtook  us  during  those  rural  entertainments  ; but  the 
purity  of  the  air  and  the  mildness  of  the  climate  admitted  of  our 
sleeping  in  the  woods  secure  from  the  injuries  of  the  weather,  and 
no  less  secure  from  the  molestation  of  robbers.  At  our  return  the 
following  day  to  our  respective  habitations,  we  found  them  exactly 
in  the  same  state  in  which  they  had  been  left.  In  this  island,  which 


30 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


then  had  no  commerce,  there  was  so  much  simplicity  and  good  faith 
that  the  doors  of  several  houses  were  without  a key,  and  a lock  was 
an  object  of  curiosity  to  many  of  the  natives. 

Amid  the  luxuriant  beauty  of  this  favored  climate,  Madame  de  la 
Tour  often  regretted  the  quick  succession  fiom  day  to  night  which 
takes  place  between  the  tropics,  and  which  deprived  her  pensive 
mind  of  that  hour  of  twilight,  the  softened  gloom  of  which  is  so 
soothing  and  sacred  to  the  feelings  of  tender  melancholy.  This  re- 
gret is  expressed  in  the  following  sonnet : 

SONNET  TO  THE  TORRID  ZONE. 

Pathway  of  light ! o’er  thy  empurpled  zone 
With  lavish  charms  perennial  summer  strays  ; 

Soft  ’midst  thy  spicy  groves  the  zephyr  plays, 

While  far  around  the  rich  perfumes  are  thrown : 

The  amadavid  bird  for  thee  alone 
Spreads  his  gay  plumes,  that  catch  thy  vivid  rays ; 

For  thee  the  gems  with  liquid  bistre  blaze, 

And  Nature's  various  wealth  is  all  thy  own. 

But,  ah  ! not  thine  is  twilight’s  doubtful  gloom, 

Those  mild  gradations,  mingling  day  with  night ; 

Here  instant  darkness  shrouds  thy  genial  bloom, 

Nor  leaves  my  pensive  soul  that  lingering  light, 

When  musing  memory  would  each  trace  resume 
Of  fading  pleasures  in  successive  flight. 

Paul  and  Virginia  had  neither  clock  nor  almanac,  nor  books  of 
chronology,  history,  or  philosophy.  The  periods  of  their  lives  were 
related  by  those  of  nature.  They  knew  the  hours  of  the  day  by  the 
shadows  of  the  trees,  the  seasons  by  the  times  when  those  trees  bore 
flowers  or  fruit,  and  the  years  by  the  number  of  their  harvests. 
These  soothing  images  diffused  an  inexpressible  charm  over  their 
conversation.  “ It  is  time  to  dine,”  said  Virginia,  “ the  shadows  of 
the  plantain-trees  are  at  their  roots;”  or  “night  approaches;  the 
tamarinds  close  their  leaves.”  “ When  will  you  come  to  see  us?” 
inquired  some  of  her  companions  in  the  neighborhood.  “ At  the 
time  of  the  sugar-canes,”  answered  Virginia.  “ Your  visit  will  be 
then  still  more  delightful,”  resumed  her  young  acquaintances.  When 
she  was  asked  what  was  her  own  age  and  that  of  Paul,  “My 
brother,  ’ ’ said  she,  “is  as  old  as  the  great  cocoa-  tree  of  the  foun- 
tain ; and  I am  as  old  as  the  little  cocoa-tree.  The  mangoes  have 
borne  fruit  twelve  times,  and  the  orange-trees  have  borne  flowers 
four-and-twenty  times  since  I came  into  the  world.”  Their  lives 
seemed  linked  to  the  trees  like  those  of  fauns  or  dryads.  They 
knew  no  other  historical  epochs  than  that  of  the  lives  of  their  mothers, 
no  other  chronology  than  that  of  their  orchards,  and  no  other  philos- 
ophy than  that  of  doing  good  and  resigning  themselves  to  the  wiff 
of  Heaven. 

Thus  grew  those  children  of  nature.  No  care  had  troubled  their 
peace,  no  intemperance  had  corrupted  their  blood,  no  misplaced  pas- 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


31 


sion  had  depraved  their  hearts.  Love,  innocence,  and  piety  possessed 
their  souls  ; and  those  intellectual  graces  unfolded  themselves  in 
their  features,  their  attitudes,  and  their  motions.  Still  in  the  morn- 
ing of  life,  they  had  all  its  blooming  freshness  ; and  surely  such  in 
the  garden  of  Eden  appeared  our  first  parents,  when,  coming  from 
the  hands  of  God,  they  first  saw,  approached,  and  conversed  to- 
gether, like  brother  and  sister.  Virginia  was  gentle,  modest,  and 
confiding  as  Eve  ; and  Paul,  like  Adam,  united  the  figure  of  man- 
hood with  the  simplicity  of  a child. 

When  alone  with  Virginia,  he  has  a thousand  times  told  me,  he 
used  to  say  to  her,  at  his  return  from  labor,  “ When  I am  wearied, 
the  sight  of  you  refreshes  me.  If  from  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
I perceive  you  below  in  the  valley,  you  appear  to  me  in  the  midst  of 
our  orchard  like  a blushing  rosebud.  If  you  go  toward  our  mother’s 
house,  the  partridge,  when  it  runs  to  meet  its  young,  has  a shape 
less  beautiful  and  a step  less  light.  When  I lose  sight  of  you 

through  the  trees,  I have  no  need  to  see  you  in  order  to  find  you 

again.  Something  of  you,  I know  not  how,  remains  for  me  in  the 
air  where  you  have  passed,  in  the  grass  where  you  have  been  seated. 
When  I come  near  you,  you  delight  all  my  senses.  The  azure  of 
heaven  is  less  charming  than  the  blue  of  your  eyes,  and  the  song  of 
the  amadavid  bird  less  soft  than  the  sound  of  your  voice.  If  I only 
touch  you  with  my  finger,  my  whole  frame  trembles  with  pleasure. 
Do  you  remember  the  day  when  we  crossed  over  the  great  stones  of 
the  river  of  the  Three  Peaks  ? I was  very  much  tired  before  we 

reached  the  bank  ; but  as  soon  as  I had  taken  you  in  my  arms  I 

seemed  to  have  wings  like  a bird.  Tell  me  by  what  charm  you  have 
so  enchanted  me  ? Is  it  by  your  wisdom  ? Our  mothers  have  more 

than  either  of  us.  Is  it  by  your  caresses  ? They  embrace  me  much 

oftener  than  you.  I think  it  must  be  by  your  goodness.  I shall 

never  forget  how  you  walked  barefooted  to  the  Black  River,  to  ask 

pardon  for  the  poor  wandering  slave.  Here,  my  beloved,  take  this 
flowering  orange-branch,  which  I have  culled  in  the  forest  ; you  will 
place  it  at  night  near  your  bed.  Eat  this  honeycomb,  which  I have 
taken  for  you  from  the  top  of  a rock.  But  first  lean  upon  my  bosom, 
and  I shall  be  refreshed.” 

Virginia  then  answered,  “ Oh,  my  dear  brother,  the  rays  of  the 
sun  in  the  morning  at  the  top  of  the  rocks  give  me  less  joy  than  the 
sight  of  you.  I love  my  mother,  I love  yours  ; but  when  they  call 
you  their  son  I love  them  a thousand  times  more.  When  they  caress 
you,  I feel  it  more  sensibly  than  when  I am  caressed  myself. 
You  ask  me  why  you  love  me.  Why,  all  creatures  that  are 
brought  up  together  love  one  another.  Look  at  our  birds,  reared 
up  in  the  same  nests  ; they  love  like  us  ; they  are  always  together 
like  us.  Hark  ! how  they  call  and  answer  from  one  tree  to  another. 
So  when  the  echoes  bring  to  my  ears  the  air  which  you  play  upon 
your  flute  at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  I repeat  the  words  at  the 


32 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


bottom  of  the  valley.  Above  all,  you  are  dear  to  me  since  the  ciay 
when  you  wanted  to  fight  the  master  of  the  slave  for  me.  Since  that 
time  how  often  I have  said  to  myself,  ‘ Ah,  my  brother  has  a good 
heart;  but  for  him  I should  have  died  of  terror.’  I pray  to  God 
every  day  for  my  mother  and  yours  ; for  you,  and  for  our  poor  ser- 
vants ; but  when  1 pronounce  your  name  my  devotion  seems  to  in- 
crease, I ask  so  earnestly  of  God  that  no  harm  may  befall  you  ! Why 
do  you  go  so  far  and  climb  so  high,  to  seek  fruits  and  flowers  for 
me  ? How  much  you  are  fatigued  ! ’ ’ and  with  her  little  white  hand- 
kerchief she  wiped  the  damps  from  his  brow. 

For  some  time  past,  however,  Virginia  had  felt  her  heart  agitated 
by  new  sensations.  Her  fine  blue  eyes  lost  their  lustre,. her  cheek 
its  freshness,  and  her  frame  was  seized  with  universal  languor. 
Serenity  no  longer  sat  upon  her  brow,  nor  smiles  played  upon  her 
lips.  She  became  suddenly  gay  without  joy,  and  melancholy  with- 
out vexation.  She  fled  her  innocent  sports,  her  gentle  labors,  and 
the  society  of  her  beloved  family,  wandering  along  the  most  unfre- 
quented parts  of  the  plantation,  and  seeking  everywhere  that  rest 
which  she  could  nowhere  find.  Sometimes,  at  the  sight  of  Paul,  she 
advanced  sportively  toward  him,  and,  when  going  to  accost  him, 
was  seized  with  sudden  confusion  : her  pale  cheeks  were  overspread 
with  blushes,  and  her  eyes  no  longer  dared  to  meet  those  of  her 
brother. 

Paul  said  to  her,  “ The  rocks  are  covered  with  verdure,  our  birds 
begin  to  sing  when  you  approach,  everything  around  you  is  gay,  and 
you  only  are  unhappy.  ” He  endeavored  to  soothe  her  by  his  em- 
braces ; but  she  turned  away  her  head,  and  fled  trembling  toward 
her  mother.  The  caresses  of  her  brother  excited  too  much  emotion 
in  her  agitated  heart.  Paul  could  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of 
those  new  and  strange  caprices. 

One  of  those  summers  which  sometimes  desolate  the  countries  situ- 
ated between  the  tropics  now  spread  its  ravages  over  this  island.  It 
was  near  the  end  of  December,  when  the  sun  in  Capricorn  darts  over 
Mauritius,  during  the  space  of  three  weeks,  its  vertical  fires.  The 
south  wind,  which  prevails  almost  throughout  the  whole  year,  no 
longer  blew.  Vast  columns  of  dust  arose  from  the  highways  and 
hung  suspended  in  the  air  ; the  ground  was  everywhere  broken  into 
clefts  ; the  grass  was  burned  ; hot  exhalations  issued  from  the  sides 
of  the  mountains,  and  their  rivulets,  for  the  most  part,  became  dry  ; 
fiery  vapors  during  the  day  ascended  from  the  plains,  and  appeared, 
at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  like  a conflagration.  Night  brought  no 
coolness  to  the  heated  atmosphere  ; the  orb  of  the  moon  seemed  of 
blood,  and,  rising  in  a misty  horizon,  appeared  of  supernatural  mag- 
nitude. The  drooping  cattle,  on  the  sides  of  the  hills,  stretching  out 
their  necks  toward  heaven  and  panting  for  air,  made  the  valleys  re- 
echo with  their  melancholy  lo  wings  ; even  the  Caff  re  by  whom  they 
were  led  threw  himself  upon  the  earth  in  search  of  coolness  ; but  the 


PAUL  A i\D  VIRGINIA. 


33 


scorching  sun  had  everywhere  penetrated,  and  the  stifling  atmosphere 
resounded  with  the  buzzing  noise  of  insects,  who  sought  to  allay 
their  thirst  in  the  blood  of  men  and  of  animals. 

On  one  of  those  sultry  nights  Virginia,  restless  and  unhappy,  arose, 
then  went  again  to  rest,  but  could  find  in  no  attitude  either  slumber 
or  repose.  At  length  she  bent  her  way,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
toward  her  fountain,  and  gazed  at  its  spring,  which,  notwithstanding 
the  drought,  still  flowed  like  silver  threads  down  the  brown  sides  of 
the  rock."  She  flung  herself  into  the  basin  ; its  coolness  reanimated 
her  spirits,  and  a thousand  soothing  remembrances  presented  them- 
selves to  her  mind.  She  recollected  that  in  her  infancy  her  mother 
and  Margaret  amused  themselves  by  bathing  her  with  Paul  in  this 
very  spot ; that  Paul  afterward,  reserving  this  bath  for  her  use  only, 
had  dug  its  bed,  covered  the  bottom  with  sand,  and  sown  aromatic 
herbs  around  the  borders.  She  saw,  reflected  through  the  water 
upon  her  naked  arms  and  bosom,  the  two  cocoa-trees  which  were 
planted  at  her  birth  and  that  of  her  brother,  and  which  interwove 
about  her  head  their  green  branches  and  young  fruit.  She  thought 
of  Paul’s  friendship,  sweeter  than  the  odors,  purer  than  the  waters 
of  the  fountain,  stronger  than  the  intertwining  palm-trees,  and  she 
sighed.  Reflecting  upon  the  hour  of  the  night  and  the  profound 
solitude,  her  imagination  again  grew  disordered.  Suddenly  she  flew 
affrighted  from  those  dangerous  shades,  and  those  waters  which  she 
fancied  hotter  than  the  torrid  sunbeam,  and  ran  to  her  mother  in  order 
to  find  a refuge  from  herself.  Often,  wishing  to  unfold  her  sufferings, 
she  pressed  her  mother’s  hand  within  her  own  ; often  she  was  ready 
to  pronounce  the  name  of  Paul  ; but  her  oppressed  heart  left  not  her 
lips  the  power  of  utterance,  and  leaning  her  head  on  her  mother’s 
bosom  she  could  only  bathe  it  with  her  tears. 

Madame  de  la  Tour,  though  she  easily  discerned  the  source  of  her 
daughter’s  uneasiness,  did  not  think  proper  to  speak  to  her  on  that 
subject.  “My  dear  child,’’  said  she,  “address  yourself  to  God, 
who  disposes,  at  his  will,  of  health  and  of  life.  He  tries  you  now  in 
order  to  recompense  you  hereafter.  Remember  that  we  are  only 
placed  upon  earth  for  the  exercise  of  virtue.’’ 

The  excessive  heat  drew  vapors  from  the  ocean,  which  hung  over 
the  island  like  a vast  awning,  and  gathered  round  the  summits  of 
the  mountains,  while  long  flakes  of  fire  occasionally  issued  from 
their  misty  peaks.  Soon  after  the  most  terrible  thunder  re-echoed 
through  the  woods,  the  plains,  and  the  valleys  ; the  rains  fell  from 
the  skies  like  cataracts  ; foaming  torrents  rolled  down  the  sides  of 
this  mountain  ; the  bottom  of  the  valley  became  a sea  ; the  plat  of 
ground  on  which  the  cottages  were  built,  a little  island,  and  the  en- 
trance of  this  valley  a sluice,  along  which  rushed  precipitately  the 
moaning  waters,  earth,  trees,  and  rocks. 

Meantime  the  trembling  family  addressed  their  prayers  to  God  in 
the  cottage  of  Madame  de  la  Tour,  the  roof  of  which  cracked  horri- 


34 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


bly  from  the  struggling  winds.  So  vivid  and  frequent  were  the  light- 
nings that,  although  the  doors  and  window-shutters  were  well  fas- 
tened, every  object  without  was  distinctly  seen  through  the  jointed 
beams.  Paul,  followed  by  Domingo,  went  with  intrepidity  from 
one  cottage  to  another,  notwithstanding  the  fury  of  the  tempest, 
"here  supporting  a partition  with  a buttress,  there  driving  in  a stake, 
and  only  returning  to  the  family  to  calm  their  fears  by  the  hope 
that  the  storm  was  passing  away.  Accordingly  in  the  evening  the 
rains  ceased,  the  trade  winds  of  the  south  pursued  their  ordinary 
course,  the  tempestuous  clouds  were  thrown  toward  the  north-east, 
and  the  setting  sun  appeared  in  the  horizon. 

Virginia’s  first  wish  was  to  visit  the  spot  called  her  Repose.  Paul 
approached  her  with  a timid  air,  and  offered  her  the  assistance  of  his 
arm,  which  she  accepted,  smiling,  and  they  left  the  cottage  together. 
The  air  was  fresh  and  clear  ; white  vapors  arose  from  the  ridges  of 
the  mountains,  furrowTed  here  and  there  by  the  foam  of  the  torrents, 
which  were  now  becoming  dry.  The  garden  was  altogether  de 
stroyed  by  the  hollows  which  the  floods  had  worn,  the  roots  of  the 
fruit-trees  were  for  the  most  part  laid  bare,  and  vast  heaps  of  sand 
covered  the  chain  of  meadows  and  choked  up  Virginia’s  bath. 
The  two  cocoa-trees,  however,  were  still  erect,  and  still  retained  ther 
freshness  ; but  they  were  no  longer  surrounded  by  turf  or  arbors  or 
birds,  except  a few  amadavid  birds,  who,  upon  the  points  of  the 
neighboring  rocks,  lamented,  in  plaintive  notes,  the  loss  of  their 
young. 

At  the  sight  of  this  general  desolation,  Virginia  exclaimed  to  Paul, 
“You  brought  birds  hither,  and  the  hurricane  has  killed  them. 
You  planted  this  garden,  and  it  is  now  destroyed.  Everything  then 
upon  earth  perishes,  and  it  is  only  Heaven  that  is  not  subject  to 
change.”  “ Why,”  answered  Paul,  “ why  cannot  I give  you  some- 
thing which  belongs  to  Heaven  ? but  I am  possessed  of  nothing  even 
upon  earth.”  Virginia,  blushing,  resumed,  “ You  have  the  picture 
of  Saint  Paul.”  Scarcely  had  she  pronounced  the  words  wThen  he 
flew  in  search  of  it  to  his  mother’s  cottage.  This  picture  was  a small 
miniature,  representing  Paul  the  Hermit,  and  which  Margaret,  who 
was  very  pious,  had  long  worn  hung  at  her  neck  when  she  was  a girl, 
and  which,  since  she  became  a mother,  she  had  placed  round  the  neck 
of  her  child.  It  had  even  happened  that,  being,  while  pregnant, 
abandoned  by  the  whole  world,  and  continually  employed  in  contem- 
plating the  image  of  this  benevolent  recluse,  her  offspring  had  con- 
tracted, at  least  so  she  fancied,  some  resemblance  to  this  revered  ob- 
ject. She  therefore  bestowed  upon  him  the  name  of  Paul,  giving 
liim  for  his  patron  a saint  who  had  passed  his  life  far  from  mankind, 
by  whom  he  had  been  first  deceived  and  then  forsaken.  Virginia, 
upon  receiving  this  little  picture  from  the  hands  of  Paul,  said  to  him, 
with  emotion,  “ My  dear  brother,  I will  never  part  with  this  while  I 
live  ; nor  will  I ever  forget  that  you  have  given  me  the  only  thing 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA, 


35 


which  you  possess  in  the  world.”  At  this  tone  of  friendship,  this 
unhoped-for  return  of  familiarity  and  tenderness,  Paul  attempted  to 
embrace  her  ; but,  light  as  a bird,  she  lied,  and  left  him  astonished, 
and  unable  to  account  for  a conduct  so  extraordinary. 

Meanwhile  Margaret  said  to  Madame  de  la  Tour,  “ Why  do  we  not 
unite  our  children  by  marriage  ? They  have  a tender  attachment  to 
each  other.”  Madame  de  la  Tour  replied,  “They  are  too  young 
and  too  poor.  What  grief  would  it  occasion  us  to  see  Virginia  bring 
into  the  world  unfortunate  children,  whom  she  would  not  perhaps 
have  sufficient  strength  to  rear  ! Your  negro,  Domingo,  is  almost 
too  old  to  labor  ; Mary  is  infirm.  As  for  myself,  my  dear  friend,  in 
the  space  of  fifteen  years  I find  my  strength  much  failed  ; age  ad- 
vances rapidly  in  hot  climates,  and,  above  all,  under  the  pressure  of 
misfortune.  Paul  is  our  only  hope  ; let  us  wait  till  his  constitution 
is  strengthened,  and  till  he  can  support  us  by  his  labor  ; at  present 
you  well  know  that  we  have  only  sufficient  to  supply  the  wants  of 
the  day  ; but  were  we  to  send  Paul  for  a short  time  to  the  Indies, 
commerce  would  furnish  him  with  the  means  of  purchasing  a slave, 
and  at  his  return  we  will  unite  him  to  Virginia  ; for  I am  persuaded 
no  one  on  earth  can  render  her  so  happy  as  your  son.  We  will  con- 
sult our  neighbor  on  this  subject.” 

They  accordingly  asked  my  advice,  and  I was  of  their  opinion. 
“ The  Indian  seas,”  I observed  to  them,  “ are  calm,  and  in  choosing 
a favorable  season  the  voyage  is  seldom  longer  than  six  weeks.  We 
will  furnish  Paul  with  a little  venture  in  my  neighborhood,  where  he 
is  much  beloved.  If  we  were  only  to  supply  him  with  some  raw 
cotton,  of  which  we  make  no  use,  for  want  of  mills  to  work  it,  some 
ebony,  which  is  here  so  common  that  it  serves  us  for  firing,  and 
some  rosin,  which  is  found  in  our  woods — all  those  articles  will  sell 
advantageously  in  the  Indies,  though  to  us  they  are  useless.” 

I engaged  to  obtain  permission  from  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais 
to  undertake  this  voyage  ; but  I determined  previously  to  mention 
the  affair  to  Paul ; and  my  surprise  was  great  when  this  young  man 
said  to  me,  with  a degree  of  good  sense  above  his  age,  “ And  why 
do  you  wish  me  to  leave  my  family  for  this  precarious  pursuit  of 
fortune  ? Is  there  any  commerce  more  advantageous  than  the  culture 
of  the  ground,  which  yields  sometimes  fifty  or  a hundred  fold  ? If 
we  wish  to  engage  in  commerce,  we  can  do  so  by  carrying  our  super- 
fluities to  the  town,  without  my  wandering  to  the  Indies.  Our 
mothers  tell  me  that  Domingo  is  old  and  feeble,  but  I am  young,  and 
gather  strength  every  day.  If  any  accident  should  happen  during 
my  absence,  above  all  to  Virginia,  who  already  suffers — Oh,  no, 
no  ! I cannot  resolve  to  leave  them.” 

This  answer  threw  me  into  great  perplexity,  for  Madame  de  la 
Tour  had  not  concealed  from  me  the  situation  of  Virginia,  and  her 
desire  of  separating  those  young  people  for  a few  years.  These  ideas 
I did  not  dare  to  suggest  to  Paul. 


36 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


At  this  period  a ship,  which  arrived  from  France,  brought  Madame 
de  la  Tour  a letter  from  her  aunt.  Alarmed  by  the  terrors  of  ap- 
proaching death,  which  could  alone  penetrate  a heart  so  insensible, 
recovering  from  a dangerous  disorder,  which  had  left  her  in  a state 
of  weakness,  rendered  incurable  by  age,  she  desired  that  her  niece 
would  return  to  France  ; or  if  her  health  forbade  her  to  undertake 
so  long  a voyage,  she  conjured  her  to  send  Virginia,  on  whom  she 
would  bestow  a good  education,  procure  for  her  a splendid  marriage, 
and  leave  her  the  inheritance  of  her  whole  fortune.  The  perusal  of 
this  letter  spread  general  consternation  through  the  family.  Do- 
mingo and  Mary  began  to  weep.  Paul,  motionless  with  surprise,  ap- 
peared as  if  his  heart  was  ready  to  burst  with  indignation,  while 
Virginia,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  her  mother,  had  not  power  to  utter  a 
word. 

“ And  can  you  now  leave  us?”  cried  Margaret  to  Madame  de  la 
Tour.  “No,  my  dear  friend,  no,  my  beloved  children,”  replied 
Madame  de  la  Tour  ; “ I will  not  leave  you  I have  lived  with  you, 
and  with  you  I will  die.  I have  known  no  happiness  but  in  your 
affection.  If  my  health  be  deranged,  my  past  misfortunes  are  the 
cause.  My  heart,  deeply  wounded  by  the  cruelty  of  a relation  and 
the  loss  of  my  husband,  has  found  more  consolation  and  felicity  with 
you  beneath  these  humble  huts  than  all  the  wealth  of  my  family 
could  now  give  me  in  my  own  country.” 

At  this  soothing  language  every  eye  overflowed  with  tears  of  de- 
light. Paul  pressed  Madame  de  la  Tour  in  his  arms,  exclaiming, 
“ Neither  will  I leave  you  ! I will  not  go  to  the  Indies.  We  will 
all  labor  for  you,  my  dear  mother  ; and  you  shall  never  feel  any 
wants  with  us.”  But  of  the  whole  society,  the  person  who  displayed 
the  least  transport,  and  who  probably  felt  the  most,  was  Virginia  ; 
and  during  the  remainder  of  the  day  that  gentle  gayety  which 
flowed  from  her  heart,  and  proved  that  her  peace  was  restored,  com- 
pleted the  general  satisfaction. 

The  next  day,  at,  sunrise,  while  they  were  offering  up,  as  usual, 
their  morning  sacrifice  of  praise,  which  preceded  their  breakfast, 
Domingo  informed  them  that  a gentleman  on  horseback,  followed  by 
two  slaves,  was  coming  toward  the  plantation.  This  person  was 
Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais.  He  entered  the  cottage,  where  he 
found  the  family  at  breakfast.  Virginia  had  prepared,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  country,  coffee  and  rice  boiled  in  water,  to  which 
she  added  hot  yams  and  fresh  cocoas.  The  leaves  of  the  plantain- 
tree  supplied  the  want  of  table-linen,  and  calbassia  shells,  split  in 
two,  served  for  utensils.  The  governor  expressed  some  surprise  at 
the  homeliness  of  the  dwelling  ; then,  addressing  himself  to  Madame 
de  la  Tour,  he  observed  that  although  public  affairs  drew  his  atten- 
tion too  much  from  the  concerns  of  individuals,  she  had  many  claims 
to  his  good  offices.  “ You  have  an  aunt  at  Paris,  madam,”  he 
added,  “ a woman  of  quality  and  immensely  rich,  who  expects  that 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


37 


you  will  hasten  to  see  her,  and  who  means  to  bestow  upon  you  her 
whole  fortune.’’  Madame  de  la  Tour  replied  that  the  state  of  her 
health  would  not  permit  her  to  undertake  so  long  a voyage.  “ At 
least,”  resumed  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais,  ” you  cannot,  without 
injustice,  deprive  this  amiable  young  lady,  your  daughter,  of  so 
noble  an  inheritance.  I will  not  conceal  from  you  that  your  aunt 
has  made  use  of  her  influence  to  oblige  you  to  return,  and  that  I have 
received  official  letters,  in  which  I am  ordered  to  exert  my  authority, 
if  necessary,  to  that  effect.  But  as  I only  wish  to  employ  my  power 
fof  the  purpose  of  rendering  the  inhabitants  of  this  colony  happy,  I 
expect  from  your  good  sense  the  voluntary  sacrifice  of  a few  years, 
upon  which  depend  your  daughter’s  establishment  in  the  world  and 
the  welfare  of  your  whole  life.  Wherefore  do  we  come  to  these 
islands  ? Is  it  not  to  acquire  a fortune  ? And  will  it  not  be  more 
agreeable  to  return  and  find  it  in  your  own  country  ?” 

He  then  placed  a great  bag  of  piastres,  which  had  been  brought 
hither  by  one  of  his  slaves,  upon  the  table.  M This,”  added  he,  “ is 
allotted  by  your  aunt  for  the  preparations  necessary  for  the  young 
lady’s  voyage.”  Gently  reproaching  Madame  de  la  Tour  for  not 
having  had  recourse  to  him  in  her  difficulties,  he  extolled  at  the  same 
time  her  noble  fortitude.  Upon  this,  Paul  said  to  the  governor,  “ My 
mother  did  address  herself  to  you,  sir,  and  you  received  her  ill.” 
“ Have  you  another  child,  madam?”  said  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdon- 
nais to  Madame  de  la  Tour.  “ No,  sir,”  she  replied  ; “ this  is  the 
child  of  my  friend  ; but  he  and  Virginia  are  equally* dear  to  us.” 
“ Young  man,”  said  the  governor  to  Paul,  “ when  you  have  acquired 
a little  more  experience  of  the  world  ^you  will  know  that  it  is  the 
misfortune  of  people  in  place  to  be  deceived,  and  thence  to  bestow 
upon  intriguing  vice  that  which  belongs  to  modest  merit.” 

Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais,  at  the  request  of  Madame  de  la  Tour, 
placed  himself  next  her  at  table,  and  breakfasted  in  the  manner  of 
the  Creoles,  upon  coffee,  mixed  with  rice,  boiled  in  water.  He  was 
delighted  with  the  order  and  neatness  which  prevailed  in  the  little 
cottage,  the  harmony  of  the  two  interesting  families,  and  the  zeal  of 
their  old  servants.  “ Here,”  exclaimed  he,  “ I discern  only  wooden 
furniture;  but  I find  serene  countenances  and  hearts  of  gold.” 
Paul,  enchanted  with  the  affability  of  the  governor,  said  to  him,  ‘ ‘ I 
wish  to  be  your  friend;  you  are  a good  man.”  Monsieur  de  la 
Bourdonnais  received  with  pleasure  this  insular  compliment,  and, 
taking  Paul  by  the  hand,  assured  him  that  he  might  rely  upon  his 
friendship. 

After  breakfast  he  took  Madame  de  la  Tour  aside,  and  informed 
her  that  an  opportunity  presented  itself  of  sending  her  daughter  to 
France,  in  a ship  which  was  going  to  sail  in  a short  time  ; that  he 
would  recommend  her  to  a lady,  a relation  of  his  own,  who  would 
be  a passenger  ; and  that  she  must  not  think  of  renouncing  an  im- 
mense fortune  on  account  of  being  separated  from  her  daughter  a 


38 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


few  years.  “ Your  aunt,”  he  added,  “ cannot  live  more  than  two 
years  ; of  this  I am  assured  by  her  friends.  Think  of  it  seriously. 
Fortune  does  not  visit  us  every  day.  Consult  your  friends.  Every 
person  of  good  sense  will  be  of  my  opinion.”  She  answered,  “ that, 
desiring  no  other  happiness  henceforth  in  the  world  than  that  of 
her  daughter,  she  would  leave  her  departure  for  France  entirely  to 
her  own  inclination.” 

Madame  de  la  Tour  was  not  sorry  to  find  an  opportunity  of  sepa- 
rating Paul  and  Virginia  for  a short  time,  and  provide,  by  this  means, 
for  their  mutual  felicity  at  a future  period.  She  took  her  daughter 
aside,  and  said  to  her,  “ My  dear  child,  our  servants  are  now  old. 
Paul  is  still  very  young.  Margaret  is  advanced  in  years,  and  I am 
already  infirm.  If  I should  die,  what  will  become  of  you,  without 
fortune,  in  the  midst  of  these  deserts  ? You  will  then  be  left  alone, 
without  any  person  who  can  afford  you  much  succor,  and  forced  to 
labor  without  ceasing,  in  order  to  support  your  wretched  existence. 
This  idea  fills  my  soul  with  sorrow.”  Virginia  answered,  “ God  has 
appointed  us  to  labor.  You  have  taught  me  to  labor,  and  to  bless 
him  every  day.  He  never  has  forsaken  us,  he  never  will  forsake  us. 
His  providence  peculiarly  watches  the  unfortunate.  You  have  told 
me  this  often,  my  dear  mother  ! I cannot  resolve  to  leave  you.” 
Madame  de  la  Tour  replied,  with  much  emotion,  “ I have  no  other 
aim  than  to  render  you  happy,  and  to  marry  you  one  day  to  Paul, 
who  is  not  your  brother.  Keflect  at  present  that  his  fortune  depends 
upon  you.” 

A young  girl  who  loves  believes  that  all  the  world  is  ignorant  of 
her  passion  ; she  throws  over  her  eyes  the  veil  which  she  has  thrown 
over  her  heart  ; but  when  it  is  lifted  up  by  some  cherishing  hand, 
the  secret  inquietudes  of  passion  suddenly  burst  their  bounds,  and 
the  soothing  overflowings  of  confidence  succeed  that  reserve  and 
mystery  with  which  the  oppressed  heart  had  enveloped  its  feelings. 
Virginia,  deeply  affected  by  this  new  proof  of  her  mother’s  tender- 
ness, related  to  her  how  cruel  had  been  those  struggles  which  Heaven 
alone  had  witnessed  ; declared  that  she  saw  the  succor  of  Providence 
in  that  of  an  affectionate  mother,  who  approved  of  her  attachment 
and  would  guide  her  by  her  counsels  ; that  being  now  strengthened 
by  such  support,  every  consideration  led  her  to  remain  with  her 
mother,  without  anxiety  for  the  present  and  without  apprehension 
for  the  future. 

Madame  de  la  Tour,  perceiving  that  this  confidential  conversation 
had  produced  an  effect  altogether  different  from  that  which  she  ex- 
pected, said,  “ My  dear  child,  I will  not  any  more  constrain  your  in- 
clination ; deliberate  at  leisure,  but  conceal  your  feelings  from  Paul.” 

Toward  evening,  when  Madame  de  la  Tour  and  Virginia  were 
again  together,  their  confessor,  who  was  a missionary  in  the  island, 
entered  the  room,  having  been  sent  by  the  governor.  “My  chil- 
dren,” he  exclaimed  as  he  entered,  “ God  be  praised  ! you  are  now 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


39 


rich.  You  can  now  listen  to  the  kind  suggestion  of  your  excellent 
hearts,  and  do  good  to  the  poor.  I know  what  Monsieur  de  la  Bour- 
donnais  has  said  to  you,  and  what  you  have  answered.  Your  health, 
dear  madam,  obliges  you  to  remain  here  ; but  you,  young  lady,  are 
without  excuse.  We  must  obey  the  will  of  Providence  ; and  we 
must  also  obey  our  aged  relations,  even  when  they  are  unjust.  A 
sacrifice  is  required  of  you  ; but  it  is  the  order  of  God.  He  devoted 
himself  for  you  ; and  you,  in  imitation  of  his  example,  must  devote 
yourself  for  the  welfare  of  your  family.  Your  voyage  to  France  will 
have  a happy  termination.'  You  will  surely  consent  to  go,  my  dear 
young  lady.” 

Virginia,  with  downcast  eyes,  answered,  trembling,  “ If  it  be  the 
command  of  God  I will  not  presume  to  oppose  it.  Let  the  will  of 
God  be  done  !”  said  she,  weeping. 

The  priest  went  away  and  informed  the  governor  of  the  success 
of  his  mission.  In  the  mean  time  Madame  de  la  Tour  sent  Domingo 
to  desire  I would  come  hither,  that  she  might  consult  me  upon 
Virginia’s  departure.  I was  of  opinion  that  she  ought  not  to  go.  I 
consider  it  as  a fixed  principle  of  happiness  that  we  ought  to  prefer 
the  advantages  of  nature  to  those  of  fortune,  and  never  go  in  search 
of  that  at  a distance  which  we  may  find  in  our  own  bosoms.  But 
what  could  be  expected  from  my  moderate  counsels,  opposed  to  the 
illusions  of  a splendid  fortune  ; and  my  simple  reasoning,  contradicted 
by  the  prejudices  of  the  world  and  an  authority  which  Madame  de 
la  Tour  held  sacred  ? This  lady  had  only  consulted  me  from  a senti- 
ment of  respect,  and  had,  in  reality,  ceased  to  deliberate  since  she 
had  heard  the  decision  of  her  confessor.  Margaret  herself,  who,  not- 
withstanding the  advantages  she  hoped  for  her  son  from  the  pos- 
session of  Virginia’s  fortune,  had  hitherto  opposed  her  departure, 
made  no  further  objections.  As  for  Paul,  ignorant  of  what  was  de- 
cided, and  alarmed  at  the  secret  conversation  which  Madame  de  la 
Tour  held  with  her  daughter,  he  abandoned  himself  to  deep  melan- 
choly. “ They  are  plotting  something  against  my  peace,”  cried  he, 
“ since  they  are  so  careful  of  concealment.” 

A report  having  in  the  mean  time  been  spread  over  the  island  that 
fortune  had  visited  those  rocks,  we  beheld  merchants  of  all  kinds 
climbing  their  steep  ascent  and  displaying  in  those  humble  huts  the 
richest  stuffs  of  India — the  fine  dimity  of  Gondelore,  the  handker- 
chiefs of  Pellicate  and  Mussulapatan,  the  plain,  striped,  and  embroi- 
dered muslins  of  Decca,  clear  as  the  day.  Those  merchants  unrolled 
the  gorgeous  silks  of  China,  white  satin  damasks,  others  of  grass- 
green  and  bright  red  ; rose-colored  taffetas,  a profusion  of  satins, 
pelongs,  and  gauze  of  Tonquin,  some  plain  and  some  beautifully 
decorated  with  flowers  ; the  soft  pekins,  downy  like  cloth  ; white 
and  yellow  nankeens,  and  the  calicoes  of  Madagascar. 

Madame  de  la  Tour  wished  her  daughter  to  purchase  everything 
she  liked  ; and  Virginia  made  choice  of  whatever  she  believed  would 


40 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


be  agreeable  to  her  mother,  Margaret,  and  her  son.  “This,”  said 
she,  “ will  serve  for  furniture,  and  that  will  be  useful  to  Mary  and 
Domingo.”  In  short,  the  bag  of  piastres  was  emptied  before  she 
had  considered  her  own  wrants,  and  she  was  obliged  to  receive  a 
share  of  the  presents  which  she  had  distributed  to  the  family  circle. 

Paul,  penetrated  with  sorrow  at  the  sight  of  those  gifts  of  fortune, 
which  he  felt  were  the  presage  of  Virginia’s  departure,  came  a few 
days  after  to  my  dwelling.  With  an  air  of  despondency  he  said  to 
me,  ‘ ‘ My  sister  is  going  ; they  are  already  making  preparations  for 
her  voyage.  I conjure  you  to  come  and  exert  your  influence  over 
her  mother  and  mine,  in  order  to  detain  her  here.”  I could  not  re- 
fuse the  young  man’s  solicitations,  although  well  convinced  that  my 
representations  would  be  unavailing. 

If  Virginia  had  appeared  to  me  charming  when  clad  in  the  blue 
cloth  of  Bengal,  with  a red  handkerchief  tied  round  her  head,  how 
much  was  her  beauty  improved  when  decorated  with  the  graceful 
ornaments  worn  by  the  ladies  of  this  country  ! She  was  dressed  in 
white  muslin,  lined  with  rose-colored  taffeta.  Her  small  and  elegant 
shape  was  displayed  to  advantage  by  her  corset,  and  the  lavish  pro- 
fusion of  her  light  tresses  were  carelessly  blended  with  her  simple 
head-dress.  Her  fine  blue  eyes  were  filled  with  an  expression  of 
melancholy,  and  the  struggles  of  passion  with  which  her  heart  was 
agitated  flushed  her  cheek  and  gave  her  voice  a tone  of  emotion. 
The  contrast  between  her  pensive  look  and  her  gay  habiliments  ren- 
dered her  more  interesting  than  ever,  nor  was  it  possible  to  see  or 
hear  her  unmoved.  Paul  became  more  and  more  melancholy  ; at 
length  Margaret,  distressed  by  the  situation  of  her  son,  took  him 
aside,  and  said  to  him,  “ Why,  my  dear  son,  will  you  cherish  vain 
hopes,  which  will  only  render  your  disappointment  more  bitter  ! It 
is  time  that  I should  make  known  to  you  the  secret  of  your  life  and 
of  mine.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Tour  belongs,  by  her  mother,  to  a rich 
and  noble  family,  while  you  are  but  the  son  of  a poor  peasant  girl ; 
and,  what  is  worse,  you  are  a natural  child.” 

Paul,  who  had  never  before  heard  this  last  expression,  inquired 
with  eagerness  its  meaning.  His  mother  replied,  “ You  had  no 
legitimate  father.  When  I was  a girl,  seduced  by  love,  I was  guilty 
of  a weakness  of  which  you  are  the  offspring.  My  fault  deprived 
you  of  the  protection  of  a father’s  family,  and  my  flight  from  home 
of  that  of  a mother’s  family.  Unfortunate  child  ! you  have  no  rela- 
tion in  the  world  but  me  !”  And  she  shed  a flood  of  tears.  Paul, 
pressing  her  in  his  arms,  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  my  dear  mother  ! since  I 
have  no  relation  in  the  world  but  you,  I will  love  you  still  more  ! 
But  what  a secret  have  you  disclosed  to  me  ! I now  see  the  reason 
why  Mademoiselle  de  la  Tour  has  estranged  herself  from  me  for  two 
months  past,  and  why  she  has  determined  to  go.  Ah  ! I perceive 
too  well  that  she  despises  me!” 

The  hour  of  supper  being  arrived,  we  placed  ourselves  at  table  ; but 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA, 


41 


the  different  sensations  with  which  we  were  all  agitated  left  us  little 
inclination  to  eat,  and  the  meal  passed  in  silence.  Virginia  first  went 
out  and  seated  herself  on  the  very  spot  where  we  now  are  placed. 
Paul  hastened  after  her,  and  seated  himself  by  her  side.  It  was  one 
of  those  delicious  nights  which  are  so  common  between  the  tropics, 
and  the  beauty  of  which  no  pencil  can  trace.  The  moon  appeared 
in  the  midst  of  the  firmament,  curtained  in  clouds,  which  her  beams 
gradually  dispelled.  Her  light  insensibly  spread  itself  over  the 
mountains  of  the  island,  and  their  peaks  glistened  with  a silvered 
green.  The  winds  were  perfectly  still.  We  heard  along  the  woods, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  valleys,  and  on  the  summits  of  the  rocks,  the 
weak  cry  and  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  birds,  exulting  in  the  bright- 
ness of  the  night  and  the  serenity  of  the  atmosphere.  The  hum  of 
insects  was  heard  in  the  grass.  The  stars  sparkled  in  the  heavens, 
and  their  trembling  and  lucid  orbs  were  reflected  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  ocean.  Virginia’s  eyes  wandered  over  its  vast  and  gloomy  hori- 
zon, distinguishable  from  the  bay  of  the  island  by  the  red  fires  in  the 
fishing-boats.  She  perceived  at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor  a light 
and  a shadow  ; these  were  the  watchlight  and  the  body  of  the  vessel 
in  which  she  was  to  embark  for  Europe,  aod  which,  ready  to  set  sail, 
lay  at  anchor,  waiting  for  the  wind.  Affected  at  this  sight,  she 
turned  away  her  head,  in  order  to  hide  her  tears  from  Paul. 

Madame  de  la  Tour,  Margaret,  and  myself  were  seated  at  a little 
distance  beneath  the  plantain-trees,  and  amid  the  stillness  of  the 
night  we  distinctly  heard  their  conversation,  which  I have  not  for- 
gotten. 

Paul  said  to  her,  “ You  are  going,  they  tell  me,  in  three  days. 
You  do  not  fear  then  to  encounter  the  danger  of  the  sea,  at  which 
you  are  so  much  terrified  !”  “I  must  fulfil  my  duty,”  answered  Vir- 
ginia, “ by  obeying  my  parent.”  “You  leave  us,”  resumed  Paul, 
“ for  a distant  relation  whom  you  have  never  seen.”  “ Alas  !”  cried 
Virginia,  “ I would  have  remained  my  whole  life  here,  but  my  moth- 
er would  not  have  it  so.  My  confessor  told  me  that  it  was  the  will 
of  God  I should  go,  and  that  life  was  a trial  !” 

“ What,”  exclaimed  Paul,  “ you  have  found  so  many  reasons  then 
for  going,  and  not  one  for  remaining  here  ! Ah  ! there  is  one  reason 
for  your  departure  which  you  have  not  mentioned.  Riches  have 
great  attractions.  You  will  soon  find  in  the  new  world  to  which  you 
are  going  another  to  whom  you  will  give  the  name  of  brother,  which 
you  will  bestow  on  me  no  more.  You  will  choose  that  brother  from 
among  persons  who  are  worthy  of  you  by  their  birth,  and  by  a for- 
tune which  I have  not  to  offer.  But  whore  will  you  go  in  order  to 
be  happier  ? On  what  shore  will  you  land  which  will  be  dearer  to 
you  than  the  spot  which  gave  you  birth  ? Where  will  you  find  a so- 
ciety more  interesting  to  you  than  this  by  which  you  are  so  beloved  ? 
How  will  you  bear  to  live  without  your  mother’s  caresses,  to  which 
you  are  so  accustomed  ? What  will  become  of  her,  already  advanced 


42 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


in  years,  when  she  will  no  longer  see  you  at  her  side  at  table,  in  the 
house,  in  the  walks  where  she  used  to  lean  upon  you  ? What  will 
become  of  my  mother,  who  loves  you  with  the  same  affection  ? 
What  shall  I say  to  comfort  them  when  I see  them  weeping  for  your 
absence  ? Cruel  ! I speak  not  to  you  of  myself  ; but  what  will  be- 
come of  me  when  in  the  morning  I shall  no  more  see  you  ? when  the 
evening  will  come,  and  will  not  reunite  us  ? when  I shall  gaze  on 
the  two  palm-trees,  planted  at  our  birth,  and  so  long  the  witnesses  of 
our  mutual  friendship  ? Ah  ! since  a new  destiny  attracts  you,  since 
you  seek  in  a country,  distant  from  your  own,  other  possessions 
than  those  which  were  the  fruits  of  my  labor,  let  me  accompany  you 
in  the  vessel  in  which  you  are  going  to  embark.  I will  animate  your 
courage  in  the  midst  of  those  tempests  at  which  you  are  so  terrified 
even  on  shore.  I will  lay  your  head  on  my  bosom.  I will  warm 
your  heart  upon  my  own  ; and  in  France,  where  you  go  in  search  of 
fortune  and  of  grandeur,  I will  attend  you  as  your  slave.  Happy 
only  in  your  happiness,  you  will  find  me  in  those  palaces  where  I 
shall  see  you  cherished  and  adored,  at  least  sufficiently  noble  to  make 
for  you  the  greatest  of  all  sacrifices,  by  dying  at  your  feet.” 

The  violence  of  his  emotion  stifled  his  voice,  and  we  then  heard 
that  of  Virginia,  which,  broken  by  sobs,  uttered  these  words  : “It  is 
for  you  I go — for  you,  whom  I see  every  day  bent  beneath  the  labor 
of  sustaining  two  infirm  families.  If  I have  accepted  this  opportuni- 
ty of  becoming  rich,  it  is  only  to  return  you  a thousandfold  the  good 
which  you  have  done  us.  Is  there  any  fortune  worthy  of  your  friend- 
ship ? Why  do  you  talk  to  me  of  your  birth  ? Ah  ! if  it  wras  again 
possible  to  give  me  a brother,  should  I make  choice  of  any  other  than 
you  ? Oh,  Paul  ! Paul  ! you  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  a brother  ! 
IIow  much  has  it  cost  me  to  avoid  you  ! Help  me  to  tear  myself 
from  what  I value  more  than  existence,  till  Heaven  can  bless  our 
union.  But  I will  stay  or  go  ; I will  live  or  die  ; dispose  of  me  as  you 
will.  Unhappy  that  I am  ! I could  resist  your  caresses,  but  I am 
unable  to  support  your  affliction.” 

At  these  words  Paul  seized  her  in  his  arms,  and,  holding  her 
pressed  fast  to  his  bosom,  cried,  in  a piercing  tone,  “ I will  go 
with  her;  nothing  shall  divide  us.”  We  ran  toward  him,  and 
Madame  de  la  Tour  said  to  him,  “ My  son,  if  you  go,  what  will  be- 
come  of  us  ?” 

He,  trembling,  repeated  the  words,  “My  son!  my  son!  You, 
my  mother,”  cried  he  ; “ you,  who  would  separate  the  brother  from 
the  sister  ! We  have  both  been  nourished  at  your  bosom  ; we  have 
both  been  reared  upon  your  knees  ; we  have  learned  of  you  to  love 
each  other  ; we  have  said  so  a thousand  times  ; and  now  you  would 
separate  her  from  me  ! Tou  send  her  to  Europe,  that  barbarous 
country  which  refused  you  an  asylum,  and  to  relations  by  whom  you 
were  abandoned.  You  will  tell  me  that  I have  no  right  over  her, 
and  that  she  is  not  my  sister.  She  is  everything  to  me — riches,  birth, 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


43 


family,  my  sole  good  ! I know  no  other.  We  have  had  but  one 
roof,  one  cradle,  and  we  will  have  but  one  grave.  If  she  goes,  I will 
follow  her.  The  governor  will  prevent  me  ! Will  he  prevent  me 
from  flinging  myself  into  the  sea  ? Will  he  prevent  me  from  follow- 
ing her  by  swimming  ? The  sea  cannot  be  more  fatal  to  me  than  the 
land.  Since  I cannot  live  with  her,  at  least  I will  die  before  her  eyes  ; 
far  from  you,  inhuman  mother  ! woman  without  compassion  ! May 
the  ocean,  to  which  you  trust  her,  restore  her  to  you  no  more  ! May 
the  waves,  rolling  back  our  corpses  amid  the  stones  of  the  beach, 
give  you,  in  the  loss  of  your  two  children,  an  eternal  subject  of  re- 
morse !” 

At  these  words  I seized  him  in  my  arms,  for  despair  had  deprived 
him  of  reason.  His  eyes  flashed  fire,  big  drops  of  sweat  hung  upon 
his  face,  his  knees  trembled,  and  I felt  his  heart  beat  violently  against 
his  burning  bosom. 

Virginia,  affrighted,  said  to  him,  “ Oh,  my  friend,  I call  to  witness 
the  pleasures  of  our  early  age,  your  sorrow  and  my  own,  and  every- 
thing that  can  forever  bind  two  unfortunate  beings  to  each  other, 
that  if  I remain  I will  live  but  for  you  ; that  if  I go  I will  one  day 
return  to  be  yours.  I call  you  all  to  witness,  you  who  have  reared  my 
infancy,  who  dispose  of  my  life,  who  see  my  tears.  I swear  by  that 
Heaven  which  hears  me,  by  the  sea  which  I am  going  to  pass,  by  the 
air  I breathe,  and  which  I never  sullied  by  a falsehood.  ’ ’ 

As  the  sun  softens  and  dissolves  an  icy  rock  upon  the  summit  of 
the  Apennines,  so  the  impetuous  passions  of  the  young  man  were  sub- 
dued by  the  voice  of  her  he  loved.  He  bent  his  head,  and  a flood  of 
tears  fell  from  his  eyes.  His  mother,  mingling  her  tears  with  his, 
held  him  in  her  arms,  but  was  unable  to  speak.  Madame  de  la  Tour, 
half  distracted,  said  to  me,  “ I can  bear  this  no  longer.  My  heart  is 
broken.  This  unfortunate  voyage  shall  not  take  place.  Do  take  my 
son  home  with  you.  It  is  eight  days  since  any  one  here  has  slept.” 

I said  to  Paul,  “ My  dear  friend,  your  sister  will  remain.  To-mor- 
row we  will  speak  to  the  governor  ; leave  your  family  to  take  some 
rest,  and  come  and  pass  the  night  with  me.  ’ ’ 

He  suffered  himself  to  be  led  away  in  silence,  and  after  a night 
of  great  agitation  he  arose  at  break  of  day  and  returned  home. 

Bat  why  should  I continue  any  longer  the  recital  of  this  history  ? 
There  is  never  but  one  aspect  of  human  life  which  we  can  contemplate 
with  pleasure.  Like  the  globe  upon  which  we  revolve,  our  fleeting 
course  is  but  a day  ; and  if  one  part  of  that  day  be  visited  by  light, 
the  other  is  thrown  into  darkness. 

“ Father,”  I answered,  “ finish,  I conjure  you,  the  history  which 
you  have  begun  in  a manner  so  interesting.  If  the  images  of  happi- 
ness are  most  pleasing,  those  of  misfortune  are  more  instructive. 
Tell  me  what  became  of  the  unhappy  young  man.” 

The  first  object  which  Paul  beheld  in  his  way  home  was  Mary 
who,  mounted  upon  a rock,  was  earnestly  looking  toward  the  sea 


44 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA, 


As  soon  as  he  perceived  her,  he  called  to  her  from  a distance, 
“Where  is  Virginia  V*  Mary  turned  her  head  toward  her  young 
master  and  began  to  weep.  Paul,  distracted,  and  treading  back  his 
steps,  ran  to  the  harbor.  He  was  there  informed  that  Virginia  had 
embarked  at  break  of  day,  that  the  vessel  had  immediately  after  set 
sail,  and  could  no  longer  be  discerned.  He  instantly  returned  to  the 
plantation,  which  he  crossed  without  uttering  a word. 

Although  the  pile  of  rocks  behind  us  appears  almost  perpendicular, 
those  green  platforms  which  separate  their  summits  are  so  many 
stages  by  means  of  which  you  may  reach,  through  some  difficult 
oaths,  that  cone  of  hanging  and  inaccessible  rocks,  called  the 
Thumb.  At  the  foot  of  that  cone  is  a stretching  slope  of  ground  cov- 
ered with  lofty  trees,  and  which  is  so  high  and  steep  that  it  appears 
like  a forest  in  air,  surrounded  by  tremendous  precipices.  The 
clouds  which  are  attracted  round  the  summit  of  those  rocks  supply 
innumerable  rivulets,  which  rush  from  so  immense  a height  into  that 
deep  valley  situated  behind  the  mountain  that  from  this  elevated  point 
we  do  not  hear  the  sound  of  their  fall.  On  that  spot  you  can  discern 
a considerable  part  of  the  island,  with  its  precipices  crowned  with 
their  majestic  peaks  ; and  among  others  Peterbath  and  the  three 
Peaks,  with  their  valley  filled  with  woods.  You  also  command  an 
extensive  view  of  the  ocean,  and  even  perceive  the  Isle  of  Bourbon, 
forty  leagues  toward  the  west.  From  the  summit  of  that  stupen- 
dous pile  of  rocks  Paul  gazed  upon  the  vessel  which  had  borne  away 
Virginia,  and  which  now,  ten  leagues  out  at  sea,  appeared  like  a black 
spot  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean.  He  remained  a great  part  of  the  day 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  this  object : when  it  had  disappeared  he  still 
fancied  he  beheld  it ; and  when,  at  length,  the  traces  which  clung  to 
his  imagination  were  lost  amid  the  gathering  mists  of  the  horizon, 
he  seated  himself  on  that  wild  point,  forever  beaten  by  the  winds, 
which  never  cease  to  agitate  the  tops  of  the  cabbage  and  gum  trees, 
and  the  hoarse  and  moaning  murmurs  of  which,  similar  to  the  distant 
sound  of  organs,  inspire  a deep  melancholy.  On  that  spot  I found 
Paul,  with  his  head  reclined  on  the  rock  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  I had  followed  him  since  break  of  day,  and  after  much  im- 
portunity I prevailed  with  him  to  descend  from  the  heights  and  re- 
turn to  his  family.  I conducted  him  to  the  plantation,  where  the 
first  impulse  of  his  mind,  upon  seeing  Madame  de  la  Tour,  was  to  re- 
proach her  bitterly  for  having  deceived  him.  Madame  de  la  Tour 
told  us  that  a favorable  wind  having  arose  at  three  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  and  the  vessel  being  ready  to  set  sail,  the  governor,  attended 
by  his  general  officers  and  the  missionary,  had  come  with  a palanquin 
in  search  of  Virginia,  and  that,  notwithstanding  her  own  objections, 
her  tears,  and  those  of  Margaret,  all  the  while  exclaiming  that  it  was 
for  the  general  welfare,  they  had  carried  away  Virginia  almost  dying. 
“At  least,”  cried  Paul,  “if  I had  bid  her  farewell  I should  nov 
be  more  calm.  I would  have  said  to  her,  Virginia,  if,  during  th< 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


45 


time  we  have  lived  together,  one  word  may  have  escaped  me  which 
has  offended  you,  before  you  leave  me  forever,  tell  me  that  you  for- 
give me.  I would  have  said  to  her,  Since  I am  destined  to  see  you 
no  more,  farewell,  my  dear  Virginia,  farewell  ! Live,  far  from  me, 
contented  and  happy  !” 

When  he  saw  that  his  mother  and  Madame  de  la  Tour  were  weep- 
ing, “You  must  now,”  said  he,  “ seek  some  other  than  me  to  wipe 
away  your  tears  ;”  and  then,  rushing  out  of  the  house,  he  wandered 
up  and  down  the  plantation.  He  flew  eagerly  to  those  spots  which 
had  been  most  dear  to  Virginia.  He  said  to  the  goats  and  their  kids 
which  followed  him,  bleating,  “ What  do  you  ask  of  me  ? You  will 
see  her  no  more  who  used  to  feed  you  with  her  own  hand.”  He 
went  to  the  bower  called  the  Repose  of  Virginia,  and  as  the  birds 
flew  around  him  exclaimed,  “ Poor  little  birds  ! you  will  fly  no  more 
to  meet  her  who  cherished  you  !”  and  observing  Fidele  running  back- 
ward and  forward  in  search  of  her,  he  heaved  a deep  sigh  and  cried, 

“ Ah  ! you  will  never  find  her  again.  ” At  length  he  went  and  seated 
himself  upon  the  rock  where  he  had  conversed  with  her  the  preced- 
ing evening  ; and  at  the  view  of  the  ocean,  upon  which  he  had  seen 
the  vessel  disappear  which  bore  her  away,  he  wept  bitterly. 

We  continually  watched  his  steps,  apprehending  some  fatal  conse- 
quence from  the  violent  agitation  of  his  mind.  His  mother  and  Ma- 
dame de  la  Tour  conjured  him,  in  the  most  tender  manner,  not  to  in- 
crease their  affliction  by  his  despair.  At  length  Madame  de  la  Tour 
soothed  his  mind  by  lavishing  upon  him  such  epithets  as  were  best 
calculated  to  revive  his  hopes.  She  called  him  her  son,  her  dear  son,  / 
whom  she  destined  for  her  daughter.  She  prevailed  with  him  to  re- 
turn to  the  house  and  receive  a little  nourishment.  He  seated  him- 
self with  us  at  table,  next  to  the  place  which  used  to  be  occupied  by 
the  companion  of  his  childhood,  and,  as  if  she  had  still  been  present, 
he  spoke  to  her  and  offered  whatever  he  knew  was  most  agreeable  to 
her  taste  ; and  then  starting  from  this  dream  of  fancy  he  began  to 
weep.  For  some  days  he  employed  himself  in  gathering  together 
everything  which  had  belonged  to  Virginia — the  last  nosegays  she 
had  worn,  the  cocoa-shell  in  which  she  used  to  drink  ; and  after  kiss- 
ing a thousand  times  those  relics  of  his  friend,  to  him  the  most  pre- 
cious treasures  which  the  world  contained,  he  hid  them  in  his  bosom. 
The  spreading  perfumes  of  the  amber  are  not  so  sweet  as  the  objects 
which  have  belonged  to  those  we  love.  At  length,  perceiving  that  his 
anguish  increased  that  of  his  mother  and  Madame  de  la  Tour,  and 
that  the  wants  of  the  family  required  continual  labor,  he  began,  with 
the  assistance  of  Domingo,  to  repair  the  garden. 

Soon  after,  this  young  man,  till  now  indifferent  as  a Creole  with 
respect  to  what  was  passing  in  the  world,  desired  I would  teach  him 
to  read  and  write,  that  he  might  carry  on  a correspondence  with  Vir- 
ginia. He  then  wished  to  be  instructed  in  geography,  in  order  that 
iie  might  form  a just  idea  of  the  country  where  she  had  disem- 
M.  c.— 9 


46 


PAUL  AND  VIPGINIA. 


barked  ; and  in  history,  that  he  might  know  the  manners  of  the  so 
ciety  in  which  she  was  placed.  The  powerful  sentiment  of  love, 
which  directed  his  present  studies,  had  already  taught  him  the  arts  of 
agriculture  and  the  manner  of  laying  out  the  most  irregular  grounds 
with  advantage  and  beauty.  It  must  be  admitted  that  to  the  fond 
dreams  of  this  restless  and  ardent  passion,  mankind  are  indebted  for 
a great  number  of  arts  and  sciences,  while  its  disappointments  have 
given  birth  to  philosophy,  which  teaches  us  to  bear  the  evils  of  life 
with  resignation.  Thus,  nature  having  made  love  the  general  link 
which  binds  all  beings,  has  rendered  it  the  first  spring  of  society,  the 
first  incitement  to  knowledge  as  well  as  pleasure. 

Paul  found  little  satisfaction  in  the  study  of  geography,  which, 
instead  of  describing  the  natural  history  of  each  country,  only  gave  a 
view  of  its  political  boundaries.  History,  and  especially  modern  his- 
tory, interested  him  little  more.  He  there  saw  only  general  and  peri- 
odical evils  of  which  he  did  not  discern  the  cause  ; wars  for  which 
there  was  no  reason  and  no  object ; nations  without  principle,  and 
princes  without  humanity.  He  preferred  the  reading  of  romances, 
which,  being  filled  with  the  particular  feelings  and  interests  of  men, 
represented  situations  similar  to  his  own.  No  book  gave  him  so 
much  pleasure  as  Telemachus,  from  the  pictures  which  it  draws  of 
pastoral  life,  and  of  those  passions  which  are  natural  to  the  human 
heart.  He  read  aloud  to  his  mother  and  Madame  de  la  Tour  those 
parts  which  affected  him  most  sensibly,  when,  sometimes,  touched 
by  the  most  tender  remembrances,  his  emotion  choked  his  utterance 
and  his  eyes  were  bathed  in  tears.  He  fancied  he  had  found  in  Vir- 
ginia the  wisdom  of  Antiope,  with  the  misfortunes  and  the  tender- 
ness of  Eucharis.  With  very  different  sensations  he  perused  our 
fashionable  novels,  filled  with  licentious  maxims  and  manners.  And 
when  he  was  informed  that  those  romances  drew  a just  picture  of 
European  society,  he  trembled,  not  without  reason,  lest  Virginia 
should  become  corrupted  and  should  forget  him. 

More  than  a year  and  a half  had  indeed  passed  away  before  Ma- 
dame de  la  Tour  received  any  tidings  of  her  daughter.  During  that 
period  she  had  only  accidentally  heard  that  Virginia  had  arrived  safely 
in  France.  At  length  a vessel,  which  stopped  in  its  way  to  the  Indies, 
conveyed  to  Madame  de  la  Tour  a packet,  and  a letter  written  with  her 
own  hand.  Although  this  amiable  young  woman  had  written  in  a 
guarded  manner,  in  order  to  avoid  wounding  the  feelings  of  a mother, 
it  was  easy  to  discern  that  she  was  unhappy.  Her  letter  paints  so 
naturally  her  situation  and  her  character  that  I have  retained  it  almost 
word  for  word. 

“ My  dear  and  beloved  Mother  : I have  already  sent  you 
several  letters,  written  with  my  own  hand,  but  having  received  no 
answer,  I fear  they  have  not  reached  you.  I have  better  hopes  for 
this,  from  the  means  I have  now  taken  of  sending  you  tidings  of  my- 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


47 


self  and  of  hearing  from  you.  I have  shed  many  tears  since  our 
separation — I,  who  never  used  to  weep  hut  for  the  misfortunes  of 
others  ! My  aunt  was  much  astonished  when,  having  upon  my  arri- 
val inquired  what  accomplishments  I possessed,  I told  her  that  I 
could  neither  read  nor  write.  She  asked  me  what  then  I had  learned 
since  I came  into  the  world  ; and  when  I answered  that  I had  been 
taught  to  take  care  of  the  household  affairs  and  obey  your  will,  she 
told  me  that  I had  received  the  education  of  a servant.  The  next 
day  she  placed  me  as  a boarder  in  a great  abbej"  near  Paris,  where  I 
have  masters  of  all  kinds,  who  teach  me,  among  other  things,  his- 
tory, geography,  grammar,  mathematics,  and  riding.  But  I have  so 
little  capacity  for  all  those  sciences  that  I make  but  small  progress 
with  my  masters. 

“ My  aunt’s  kindness,  however,  does  not  abate  toward  me.  She 
gives  me  new  dresses  for  each  season,  and  she  has  placed  two  wait- 
ing-women with  me,  who  are  both  dressed  like  fine  ladies.  She  has 
made  me  take  the  title  of  countess,  but  has  obliged  me  to  renounce 
the  name  of  La  Tour,  which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  it  is  to  you,  from  all 
you  have  told  me  of  the  sufferings  my  father  endured  in  order  to 
marry  you.  She  has  replaced  your  name  by  that  of  your  family, 
which  is  also  dear  to  me  because  it  was  your  name  when  a girl. 
Seeing  myself  in  so  splendid  a situation,  I implored  her  to  let  me 
send  you  some  assistance.  But  how  shall  I repeat  her  answer  ? Yet 
you  have  desired  me  always  to  tell  you  the  truth.  She  told  me  then 
that  a little  would  be  of  no  use  to  you,  and  that  a great  deal  would 
only  encumber  you  in  the  simple  life  you  led. 

“ I endeavored,  upon  my  arrival,  to  send  you  tidings  of  myself  by 
another  hand  ; but  finding  no  person  here  in  whom  I could  place 
confidence,  I applied  night  and  day  to  reading  and  writing  ; and 
Heaven,  who  saw  my  motive  for  learning,  no  doubt  assisted  my  en- 
deavors, for  I acquired  both  in  a short  time.  I intrusted  my  first  let- 
ters to  som'3  of  the  ladies  here,  who,  I have  reason  to  think,  carried 
them  to  my  aunt.  This  time  1 have  had  recourse  to  a boarder,  who 
is  my  friend.  I send  you  her  direction,  by  means  of  which  I shall  re- 
ceive your  answer.  My  aunt  has  forbid  my  holding  any  correspond- 
ence whatever,  which  might,  she  says,  become  an  obstacle  to  the 
great  views  she  has  for  my  advantage.  No  person  is  allowed  to  see 
me  at  the  grate  but  herself  and  an  old  nobleman,  one  of  her  friends, 
who,  she  says,  is  much  pleased  with  me.  I am  sure  I am  not  at  all 
so  with  him  ; nor  should  I,  even  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to  be 
pleased  with  any  one  at  present. 

“ I live  in  the  midst  of  affluence,  and  have  not  a livre  at  my  dis- 
posal. They  say  I might  make  an  improper  use  of  money.  Even 
my  clothes  belong  to  my  waiting-women,  who  quarrel  about  them  be- 
fore I have  left  them  off.  In  the  bosom  of  riches  I am  poorer  than 
when  I lived  with  you,  for  I have  nothing  to  give.  When  I found 
that  the  great  accomplishments  they  taught  me  would  not  procure 


48 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


me  the  power  of  doing  the  smallest  good,  I had  recourse  to  my 
needle,  of  which  happily  you  had  learned  me  the  use.  I send  several 
pairs  of  stockings  of  my  own  making  for  you  and  my  mamma  Mar- 
garet, a cap  for  Domingo,  and  one  of  my  red  handkerchiefs  for  Mary. 
I also  send  with  this  packet  some  kernels  and  seeds  of  various  kinds 
of  fruits,  which  I gathered  in  the  fields.  There  are  much  more  beau- 
tiful flowers  in  the  meadows  of  this  country  than  in  ours,  but  nobody 
cares  for  them.  I am  sure  that  you  and  my  mamma  Margaret  will  be 
better  pleased  with  this  bag  of  seeds  than  you  were  with  the  bag  of 
piastres,  which  was  the  cause  of  our  separation  and  of  my  tears.  It  will 
give  me  great  delight  if  you  should  one  day  see  apple-trees  growing 
at  the  side  of  the  plantain,  and  elms  blending  their  foliage  with  our 
cocoa-trees.  You  will  fancy  yourself  in  Normandy,  which  you  love 
so  much. 

44  You  desired  me  to  relate  to  you  my  joys  and  my  griefs.  I 
have  no  joys  far  from  you.  As  for  my  griefs,  I endeavor  to  soothe 
them  by  reflecting  that  I am  in  the  situation  in  which  you  placed 
me  by  the  will  of  God.  But  my  greatest  affliction  is  that  no 
one  here  speaks  to  me  of  you,  and  that  I must  speak  of  you 
to  no  one.  My  waiting  women,  or  rather  those  of  my  aunt,  for 
they  belong  more  to  her  than  to  me,  told  me  the  other  day,  when 
I wished  to  turn  the  conversation  upon  the  objects  most  dear  to  me, 
4 Remember,  tnadame,  that  you  are  a French  woman,  and  must  forget 
that  country  of  savages.’  Ah  ! sooner  will  I forget  myself  than  for- 
get the  spot  on  which  I was  born,  and  which  you  inhabit  ! It  is  this 
country  which  is  to  me  a land  of  savages  ; for  I live  alone,  having  no 
one  to  whom  I can  impart  those  feelings  of  tenderness  for  you  which 
I shall  bear  with  me  to  the  grave. 

4 4 1 am,  my  dearest  and  beloved  mother,  your  affectionate  and  duti- 
ful daughter,  Virginia  de  la  Tour. 

44 1 recommend  to  your  goodness  Mary  and  Domingo,  who  took  so 
much  care  of  my  infancy.  Caress  Fidele  for  me,  who  found  me  in 
the  wood.” 

Paul  was  astonished  that  Virginia  had  not  said  one  word  of  him, 
she  who  had  not  forgotten  even  the  house  dog.  But  Paul  was  not 
aware  that,  however  long  may  be  a woman’s  letter,  she  always  puts 
the  sentiments  most  dear  to  her  at  the  end. 

In  a postscript  Virginia  recommended  particularly  to  Paul’s  care 
two  kinds  of  seed,  those  of  the  violet  and  scabious.  She  gave  him 
some  instructions  upon  the  nature  of  those  plants,  and  the  spots  most 
proper  for  their  cultivation.  44  The  first,”  said  she,  44  produces  a lit- 
tle flower  of  a deep  violet,  which  loves  to  hide  itself  beneath  the 
bushes,  but  it  is  soon  discovered  by  its  delightful  odors.”  She  desired 
those  seeds  might  be  sown  along  the  borders  of  the  fountain,  at  the 
foot  of  her  cocoa-tree.  44  The  scabious,  ” she  added,  44  produces  a 
beautiful  flower  of  a pale  blue,  and  a black  ground  spotted  with  white. 


PAUL  AKD  VIRGINIA. 


49 


You  might  fancy  it  was  in  mourning,  and  for  this  reason  it  is  called 
the  widow’s  flower.  It  delights  in  bleak  spots  beaten  by  the  winds.” 
She  begged  this  might  be  sown  upon  the  rock  where  she  had  spoken 
to  him  for  the  last  time,  and  that,  for  her  sake,  he  would  henceforth 
give  it  the  name  of  the  Farewell  Rock. 

She  had  put  those  seeds  into  a little  purse,  the  tissue  of  which  was 
extremely  simple,  but  which  appeared  above  all  price  to  Paul  when 
he  perceived  a P and  a V entwined  together,  and  knew  that  the  beau- 
tiful hair  which  formed  the  cipher  was  the  hair  of  Virginia. 

The  whole  family  listened  with  tears  to  the  letter  of  that  amiable 
and  virtuous  young  woman.  Her  mother  answered  it  in  the  name  of 
the  little  society,  and  desired  her  to  remain  or  return  as  she  thought 
proper,  assuring  her  that  happiness  had  fled  from  their  dwelling 
since  her  departure,  and  that,  as  for  herself,  she  was  inconsolable. 

Paul  also  sent  her  a long  letter,  in  which  he  assured  her  that  he 
would  arrange  the  garden  in  a manner  agreeable  to  her  taste,  and 
blend  the  plants  of  Europe  with  those  of  Africa.  He  sent  her  some 
fruit  culled  from  the  cocoa-trees  of  the  fountain,  which  were  now 
arrived  at  maturity,  telling  her  that  he  would  not  add  any  more  of 
the  other  seeds  of  the  island,  that  the  desire  of  seeing  those  produc- 
tions again  might  hasten  her  return.  He  conjured  her  to  comply 
without  delay  with  the  ardent  wishes  of  her  family,  and,  above  all, 
with  his  own,  since  he  was  unable  to  endure  the  pain  of  their  separa- 
tion. 

With  a careful  hand  Paul  sowed  the  European  seeds,  particularly 
the  violet  and  the  scabious,  the  flowers  of  which  seem  to  bear  some 
analogy  to  the  character  and  situation  of  Virginia,  by  whom  they  had 
been  recommended  ; but  whether  they  were  injured  by  the  voyage 
or  whether  the  soil  of  this  part  of  Africa  is  unfavorable  to  their 
growth,  a very  small  number  of  them  blew,  and  none  came  to  per- 
fection. 

Meanwhile  that  envy  which  pursues  human  happiness  spread  re- 
ports over  the  island  which  gave  great  uneasiness  to  Paul.  The  per- 
sons who  had  brought  Virginia’s  letter  asserted  that  she  was  upon 
the  point  of  being  married,  and  named  the  nobleman  of  the  court 
with  whom  she  was  going  to  be  united.  Some  even  declared  that 
she  was  already  married,  of  which  they  were  witnesses.  Paul  at 
first  despised  this  report,  brought  by  one  of  those  trading  ships, 
which  often  spread  erroneous  intelligence  in  their  passage  ; but  some 
ill-natured  persons,  by  their  insulting  pity,  led  him  to  give  some  de- 
gree of  credit  to  this  cruel  intelligence.  Besides,  he  had  seen  in  the 
novels  which  he  had  lately  read,  that  perfidy  was  treated  as  a subject 
of  pleasantry  ; and  knowing  that  those  books  were  faithful  represen- 
tations of  European  manners,  he  feared  that  the  heart  of  Virginia 
was  corrupted,  and  had  forgotten  its  former  engagements.  Thus  his 
acquirements  only  served  to  render  him  miserable  ; and  what  in- 
creased his  apprehensions  was  that  several  ships  arrived  from  Eu- 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


5M 

rope  during  the  space  of  six  months,  and  not  one  brought  any 
tiamgs  of  Virginia. 

This  unfortunate  young  man,  with  a heart  torn  by  a most  cruel 
agitation,  came  often  to  visit  me,  that  I might  confirm  or  banish  his 
inquietude  by  rny  experience  of  the  world. 

I live,  as  I have  already  told  you,  a league  and  a half  from  hence, 
upon  the  banks  of  a little  river  which  glides  along  the  Sloping  Moun- 
tain ; there  I lead  a solitary  life,  without  wife,  children,  or  slaves. 

After  having  enjoyed  and  lost  the  rare  felicity  of  living  with  a 
congenial  mind,  the  state  of  life  which  appears  the  least  wretched  is 
that  of  solitude.  It  is  remarkable  that  all  those  nations  which  have 
been  rendered  unhappy  by  their  political  opinions,  their  manners,  or 
their  forms  of  government,  have  produced  numerous  classes  of  citi- 
zens altogether  devoted  to  solitude  and  celibacy.  Such  were  the 
Egyptians  in  their  decline,  the  Greeks  of  the  lower  empire,  and  such 
in  our  days  are  the  Indians,  the  Chinese,  the  modern  Greeks,  the  Ital- 
ians, and  most  part  of  the  eastern  and  southern  nations  of  Europe. 

Thus  I pass  my  days  far  from  mankind,  whom  I wished  to  serve, 
and  by  whom  I have  been  persecuted*  After  having  travelled  over 
many  countries  of  Europe  and  some  parts  of  America  and  Africa,  I 
at  length  pitched  my  tent  in  this  thinly-peopled  island,  allured  by  its 
mild  temperature  and  its  solitude.  A cottage  which  I built  in  the 
woods,  at  the  foot  of  a tree,  a little  field  which  I cultivated  with  my 
own  hands,  a river  which  glides  before  my  door,  suffice  for  my  wants 
and  for  my  pleasures.  I blend  with  those  enjoyments  that  of  some 
chosen  books,  which  teach  me  to  become  better.  They  make  that 
world  which  I have  abandoned  stili  contribute  to  my  satisfaction. 
They  place  before  me  pictures  of  those  passions  which  render  its  in- 
habitants so  miserable,  and  the  comparison  which  I make  between 
their  destiny  and  my  own  leads  me  to  feel  a sort  of  negative  happi- 
ness. Like  a man  whom  shipwreck  has  thrown  upon  a rock,  I con- 
template from  my  solitude  the  storms  which  roll  over  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  my  repose  seems  more  profound  from  the  distant 
sounds  of  the  tempest. 

I suffer  myself  to  be  led  calmly  down  the  stream  of  time  to  the 
ocean  of  futurity,  which  has  no  boundaries  ; while,  iu  the  contem- 
plation of  the  present  harmony  of  nature,  I raise  my  soul  toward  its 
supreme  Author,  and  hope  for  a more  happy  destiny  in  another  state 
of  existence. 

Although  you  do  not  descry  my  hermitage,  which  is  situated  in  the 
midst  of  a forest,  among  that  immense  variety  of  objects  which  this 
elevated  spot  presents,  the  grounds  are  disposed  with  particular 
beauty — at  least  to  one  who,  like  me,  loves  rather  the  seclusion  of  a 
home  scene  than  great  and  extensive  prospects.  The  river  which 
glides  before  my  door  passes  in  a straight  line  across  the  woods,  and 
appears  like  a long  canal  shaded  by  trees  of  all  kinds.  There  are 
black  date  plum-trees,  what  we  here  call  the  narrow  leaved  dodonea. 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


51 


olive-wood,  gum-trees,  and  the  cinnamon-tree  ; while  in  some  parts 
the  cabbage-trees  raise  their  naked  columns  more  than  a hundred  feet 
high,  crowned  at  their  summits  with  clustering  leaves,  and  tower- 
ing above  the  wood  like  one  forest  piled  upon  another.  Lianas  of 
various  foliage,  intertwining  among  the  woods,  form  arcades  of  flow- 
ers and  verdant  canopies  ; those  trees  for  the  most  part  shed  aromatic 
odors  of  a nature  so  powerful  that  the  garments  of  a traveller  who 
has  passed  through  the  forest  retain  for  several  hours  the  delicious 
fragrance.  In  the  season  when  those  trees  produce  their  lavish  blos- 
soms, they  appear  as  if  covered  with  snow.  One  of  the  principal 
ornaments  of  our  woods  is  the  calbassia,  a tree  not  only  distinguished 
for  its  beautiful  tint  of  verdure  but  for  other  properties,  which  Ma- 
dame de  la  Tour  has  described  in  the  following  sonnet,  written  at  one 
of  her  first  visits  to  my  hermitage  : 

SONNET  TO  THE  CALBASSIA-TREE. 

Sublime  Calbassia,  luxuriant  tree  ! 

How  soft  the  gloom  thy  bright-hued  foliage  throws, 

While  from  thy  pulp  a healing  balsam  flows, 

Whose  power  the  suffering  wretch  from  pain  can  free, 

My  pensive  footsteps  ever  turn  to  thee  ! 

Since  oft,  while  musing  on  my  lasting  woes, 

Beneath  thy  flowery  white  bells  I repose, 

Symbol  of  friendship  dost  thou  seem  to  me  ; 

For  thus  has  friendship  cast  her  soothing  shade 
O’er  my  unshelter’d  bosom’s  keen  distress  ; 

Thus  sought  to  heal  the  wounds  which  love  has  made, 

And  temper  bleeding  sorrow’s  sharp  excess  ! 

Ah  ! not  in  vain  she  lends  her  balmy  aid  : 

The  agonies  she  cannot  cure  are  less  ! 

Toward  the  end  of  summer  various  kinds  of  foreign  birds  hasten, 
impelled  by  an  inexplicable  instinct,  from  unknown  regions,  and 
across  immense  oceans,  to  gather  the  profuse  grains  of  this  island  ; 
and  the  brilliancy  of  their  expanded  plumage  forms  a contrast  to  the 
trees  embrowned  by  the  sun.  Such,  among  others,  are  various  kinds 
of  paroquets,  the  blue  pigeon,  called  here  the  pigeon  of  Holland,  and 
the  wandering  and  majestic  white  bird  of  the  tropic,  which  Madame 
de  la  Tour  thus  apostrophized  : 

SONNET  TO  THE  WHITE  BIRD  OF  THE  TROPIC. 

Bird  of  the  Tropic  ! thou,  who  lov’st  to  stray 
Where  thy  long  pinions  sweep  the  sultry  line. 

Or  mark’st  the  bounds  which  torrid  beams  confine 
By  thy  averted  course,  that  shuns  the  ray 
Oblique,  enamour’d  of  suolimer  day  : 

Oft  on  yon  cliff  thy  folded  plumes  recline, 

And  drop  those  snowy  feathers  Indiars  twine 
To  crown  the  warrior’s  brow  with  honors  gay. 

O’er  trackless  oceans  what  impels  thy  wing  ? 

Does  no  soft  instinct  in  thy  soul  prevail  ? 

No  sweet  affection  to  thy  bosom  cling, 

And  bid  thee  oft  thy  absent  nest  bewail  ? 

Yet  thou  again  to  that  dear  spot  canst  spring  ; 

But  I my  long-lost  home  no  more  shall  hail  J 


52 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


The  domestic  inhabitants  of  our  forests,  monkeys,  sport  upon  the 
dark  branches  of  the  trees,  from  which  they  are  distinguished  by 
their  gray  and  greenish  skin  and  their  black  visages.  Some  hang 
suspended  by  the  tail,  and  balance  themselves  in  air  ; others  leap 
from  branch  to  branch  bearing  their  young  in  their  arms.  The  mur- 
derous gun  has  never  affrighted  those  peaceful  children  of  nature, 
You  sometimes  hear  the  warblings  of  unknown  birds  from  the  south 
ern  countries,  repeated  at  a distance  by  the  echoes  of  the  forest. 
The  river,  which  runs  in  foaming  cataracts  over  a bed  of  rocks,  re- 
flects here  and  there  upon  its  limpid  waters  venerable  masses  of 
woody  shade,  together  with  the  sport  of  its  happy  inhabitants. 
About  a thousand  paces  from  thence  the  river  precipitates  itself  over 
several  piles  of  rocks,  and  forms,  in  its  fall,  a sheet  of  water  smooth 
as  crystal,  but  which  breaks  at  the  bottom  into  frothy  surges.  Innu- 
merable confused  sounds  issue  from  those  tumultuous  waters  which, 
scattered  by  the  winds  of  the  forest,  sometimes  sink,  sometimes 
swell,  and  send  forth  a hollow  tone  like  the  deep  bells  of  a cathe- 
dral. The  air,  forever  renewed  by  the  circulation  of  the  waters, 
fans  the  banks  of  that  river  with  freshness,  and  leaves  a degree  of 
verdure,  notwithstanding  the  summer  heats,  rarely  found  in  this 
island,  even  upon  the  summits  of  the  mountains. 

At  some  distance  is  a rock,  placed  far  enough  from  the  cascade  to 
prevent  the  ear  from  being  deafened  by  the  noise  of  its  waters,  and 
sufficiently  near  for  the  enjoyment  of  their  view,  their  coolness,  and 
their  murmurs.  Thither,  amid  the  heats  of  summer,  Madame  de  la 
Tour,  Margaret,  Virginia,  Paul,  and  myself  sometimes  repaired,  and 
rimed  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  rock.  Virginia,  who  always 
directed  her  most  ordinary  actions  to  the  good  of  others,  never  eat  of 
any  fruit  without  planting  the  seed  or  kernel  in  the  ground.  “ From 
this,”  said  she,  “ trees  will  come,  which  will  give  their  fruit  to  some 
traveller,  or  at  least  to  some  bird.”  One  day,  having  eaten  of  the 
papaw  fruit,  at  the  foot  of  that  rock  she  planted  the  seeds.  Soon 
after  several  papaws  sprung  up,  among  which  was  one  that  yielded 
fruit.  This  tree  had  risen  but  a little  from  the  ground  at  the  time  of 
Virginia’s  departuie  ; but  its  growth  being  rapid,  in  the  space  of 
two  years  it  had  gained  twenty  feet  of  height,  and  the  upper  part  of 
its  stem  was  encircled  with  several  layers  of  ripe  fruit.  Paul,  having 
wandered  to  that  spot,  was  delighted  to  see  that  this  lofty  tree  had 
arisen  from  the  small  seed  planted  by  his  beloved  friend  ; but  that 
emotion  instantly  gave  place  to  a deep  melancholy  at  this  evidence 
of  her  long  absence.  The  objects  which  we  see  habitually  do  not  re- 
mind us  of  the  rapidity  of  life  ; they  decline  insensibly  with  our- 
selves ; but  those  which  we  behold  again,  after  having  for  some 
years  lost  sight  of  them,  impress  us  powerfully  with  the  idea  of  that 
swiftness  with  which  the  tide  of  our  days  nows  on.  Paul  was  no 
less  overwhelmed  and  affected  at  the  sight  of  this  great  papaw-tree, 
loaded  with  fruit,  than  is  the  traveller  when,  after  a long  absence 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


53 


from  his  own  country,  he  finds  not  his  contemporaries  but  their  chil- 
dren, whom  he  left  at  the  breast,  and  whom  he  sees  are  become  fa- 
thers of  families.  Paul  sometimes  thought  of  hewing  down  the  tree 
which  recalled  too  sensibly  the  distracted  image  of  that  length  of 
time  which  had  elapsed  since  the  departure  of  Virginia.  Sometimes, 
contemplating  it  as  a monument  of  her  benevolence,  he  kissed  its 
trunk  and  apostrophized  it  in  terms  of  the  most  passionate  regret  ; 
and  indeed  I have  myself  gazed  upon  it  with  more  emotion  and 
more  veneration  than  upon  the  triumphal  arches  of  Rome. 

At  the  foot  of  this  papaw  I was  always  sure  to  meet  with  Paul 
when  he  came  into  our  neighborhood.  One  day,  when  I found  him 
absorbed  in  melancholy,  we  had  a conversation  which  I will  relate  to 
you  if  I do  not  weary  you  by  my  long  digressions,  perhaps  pardon- 
able to  my  age  and  my  last  friendships. 

Paul  said  to  me,  “ I am  very  unhappy.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Tour 
has  now  been  gone  two  years  and  two  months,  and  we  have  heard 
no  tidings  of  her  for  eight  months  and  two  weeks.  She  is  rich,  and 
I am  poor.  She  has  forgotten  me.  I have  a great  mind  to  follow 
her.  1 will  go  to  France  ; I will  serve  the  king,  make  a fortune,  and 
then  Mademoiselle  de  la  Tour’s  aunt  will  bestow  her  niece  upon  me 
when  I shall  have  become  a great  lord.” 

“But,  my  dear  friend,”  I answered,  “have  you  not  told  me 
that  you  are  not  of  noble  birth  ?” 

“ My  mother  has  told  me  so,  ” said  Paul.  “ As  for  myself,  I know 
not  what  noble  birth  means.  ’ ’ 

“Obscure  birth,”  I replied,  “in  France  shuts  out  all  access  to 
great  employments  ; nor  can  you  even  be  received  among  any  distin- 
guished body  of  men.  ’ 5 

“ How  unfortunate  I am  !”  resumed  Paul ; “ everything  repulses 
me.  I am  condemned  to  waste  my  wretched  life  in  labor,  far  from 
Virginia.”  And  he  heaved  a deep  sigh.  “Since  her  relation,  ” he 
added,  “ will  only  give  her  in  marriage  to  some  one  with  a great 
name,  by  the  aid  of  study  we  become  wise  and  celebrated.  I will  fly 
then  to  study  ; I will  acquire  sciences  ; I will  serve  my  country  use- 
fully by  my  attainments  ; I shall  be  independent  ; 1 shall  become 
renowned  ; and  my  glory  shall  belong  only  to  myself.” 

“ My  son,  talents  are  still  more  rare  than  birth  or  riches,  and  are 
undoubtedly  an  inestimable  good,  of  which  nothing  can  deprive  us, 
and  which  everywhere  conciliate  public  esteem.  But  they  cost 
dear  ; they  are  generally  allied  to  exquisite  sensibility,  which  renders 
their  possessor  miserable.  But  you  tell  me  that  you  would  serve 
mankind.  He  who  from  the  soil  which  he  cultivates  draws  forth 
one  additional  sheaf  of  corn  serves  mankind  more  than  he  who  pre- 
sents them  with  a book.” 

“ Oh,  she,  then,”  exclaimed  Paul,  “ who  planted  this  papaw-tree 
made  a present  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  forest  more  dear  and  more 


54 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


useful  than  if  she  had  given  them  a library.”  And  seizing  the  tree 
in  his  arms  he  kissed  it  with  transport. 

“ Ah  ! I desire  glory  only,”  he  resumed,  “ to  confer  it  upon  Vir- 
ginia, and  render  her  dear  to  the  whole  universe.  But  you,  who 
know  so  much,  tell  me  if  we  shall  ever  be  married.  I wish  I was  at 
least  learned  enough  to  look  into  futurity.  Virginia  must  come 
back.  What  need  has  she  of  a rich  relation?  she  was  so  happy  in 
those  huts,  so  beautiful,  and  so  well  dressed,  with  a red  handkerchief 
or  flowers  round  her  head  ! Return,  Virginia  ! Leave  your  palaces, 
your  splendor  ! Return  to  these  rocks,  to  the  shade  of  our  woods 
and  our  cocoa-trees  ! Alas  ! you  are,  perhaps,  unhappy  !”  And  he 
began  to  weep.  “ My  father  ! conceal  nothing  from  me.  If  you 
cannot  tell  me  whether  I shall  marry  Virginia  or  no,  tell  me,  at  least, 
if  she  still  loves  me  amid  those  great  lords  who  speak  to  the  king 
and  go  to  see  her.  ’ ’ 

“Oh,  my  dear  friend,”  I answered,  “I  am  sure  that  she  loves 
you,  for  several  reasons  ; but,  above  all,  because  she  is  virtuous.” 
At  those  words  he  threw  himself  upon  my  neck  in  a transport  of  joy. 

“ But  what,”  said  he,  “ do  you  understand  by  virtue  ?” 

“ My  son,  to  you,  who  support  your  family  by  your  labor,  it  need 
not  be  defined.  Virtue  is  an  effort  which  we  make  for  the  good  of 
others,  and  with  the  intention  of  pleasing  God.” 

“ Oh,  how  virtuous  then,”  cried  he,  ‘ is  Virginia  ! Virtue  made 
her  seek  for  riches  that  she  might  piacl.se  benevolence.  Virtue  led 
her  to  forsake  this  island,  and  virtue  will  bring  her  back.”  Tbe  idea 
of  her  near  return  fired  his  imagination,  and  his  inquietudes  sud- 
denly vanished.  Virginia,  he  was  persuaded,  had  not  written  be- 
cause she  would  soon  arrive.  It  took  so  little  time  to  come  from 
Europe  with  a fair  wind  ! Then  he  enumerated  the  vessels  which 
had  made  a passage  of  four  thousand  five  hundred  leagues  In  less 
than  three  months;  and  perhaps  the  vessel  in  which  Virginia  had 
embarked  might  not  be  longer  than  two.  Ship-builders  were  now  so 
ingenious  and  sailors  so  expert  1 He  then  told  me  of  the  arrange- 
ments he  would  make  for  her  reception,  of  the  new  habitation  he 
would  build  for  her,  of  Ihe  pleasures  and  surprises  which  each  day 
should  bring  along  with  it  when  she  was  his  wife  ! His  wife  ! that 
hope  was  ecstasy.  “ At  least,  my  dear  father,”  said  he,  “ you  [shall 
then  do  nothing  more  than  you  please.  Virginia  being  rich,  we  shall 
have  a number  of  negroes  who  will  labor  for  you.  You  shall  always 
live  with  us,  and  have  no  other  care  than  to  amuse  and  rejoice  your- 
self ;”  and,  his  heart  throbbing  with  delight,  he  flew  to  communicate 
those  exquisite  sensations  to  his  family. 

In  a short  time,  however,  the  most  cruel  apprehensions  succeeded 
those  enchanting  hopes.  Violent  passions  ever  throw  the  soul  into 
opposite  extremes.  Paul  returned  to  my  dwelling  absorbed  in  mel- 
ancholy, and  said  to  me,  “ I hear  nothing  from  Virginia.  Had  she 
left  Europe  she  would  have  informed  me  of  her  departure.  Ah  1 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


55 


the  reports  which  I have  heard  concerning  her  are  but  too  well 
founded.  Her  aunt  has  married  her  to  some  great  lord.  She,  like 
others,  has  been  undone  by  the  love  of  riches.  In  those  books  which 
paint  women  so  well,  virtue  is  but  a subject  of  romance.  Had  Vir- 
ginia been  virtuous  she  would  not  have  forsaken  her  mother  and  me, 
and,  while  I pass  life  in  thinking  of  her,  forgotten  me.  While  I am 
wretched,  she  is  happy.  Ah  ! that  thought  distracts  me  ; labor  be- 
comes painful  and  society  irksome.  Would  to  Heaven  that  war 
were  declared  in  India  ! 1 would  go  there  and  die.” 

“ My  son,”  I answered,  “ that  courage  which  prompts  us  to  court 
death  is  but  the  courage  of  a moment,  and  is  often  excited  by  the 
vain  hopes  of  posthumous  fame.  There  is  a species  of  courage  more 
necessary,  and  more  rare,  which  makes  us  support,  without  witness 
and  without  applause,  the  various  vexations  of  life,  and  that  is  pa- 
tience. Leaning  not  upon  the  opinions  of  others,  but  upon  the  will 
of  God,  patience  is  the  courage  of  virtue.” 

“ Ah  !”  cried  he,  “I  am  then  without  virtue  ! Everything  over, 
whelms  and  distracts  me.” 

“ Equal,  constant,  and  invariable  virtue,”  I replied,  “ belongs  not 
to  man.  In  the  midst  of  so  many  passions  by  which  wre  are  agi- 
tated, our  reason  is  disordered  and  obscured  ; but  there  is  an  ever- 
burning lamp  at  which  we  can  rekindle  its  flame,  and  that  is  litera- 
ture. 

“ Literature,  my  dear  son,  is  the  gift  of  Heaven,  a ray  of  that 
wisdom  which  governs  the  universe,  and  which  man,  inspired  by 
celestial  intelligence,  has  drawn  down  to  earth.  Like  the  sun,  it  en- 
lightens, it  rejoices,  it  warms  with  a divine  flame,  and  seems,  in  some 
sort,  like  the  element  of  fire,  to  bend  all  nature  to  our  use.  By  the 
aid  of  literature  we  bring  around  us  all  things,  all  places,  men,  and 
times.  By  its  aid  we  calm  the  passions,  suppress  vice,  and  excite 
virtue.  Literature  is  the  daughter  of  Heaven,  who  has  descended 
upon  earth  to  soften  and  to  charm  all  human  evils. 

“ Have  recourse  to  your  books,  then,  my  son.  The  sages  who 
have  written  before  our  days  are  travellers  who  have  preceded  us  in 
the  paths  of  misfortune  ; who  stretch  out  a friendly  hand  toward 
us,  and  invite  us  to  join  their  society,  when  everything  else  abandons 
us.  A good  book  is  a good  friend.  ” 

“ Ah  !”  cried  Paul,  “ I stood  in  no  need  of  books  when  Virginia 
was  here,  and  she  had  studied  as  little  as  me  ; but  when  she  looked 
at  me  and  called  me  her  friend  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  be  un- 
happy.” 

“ Undoubtedly,”  said  I,  “ there  is  no  friend  so  agreeable  as  a mis- 
tress by  whom  we  are  beloved.  There  is  in  the  gay  graces  of  woman 
a charm  that  dispels  the  dark  phantoms  of  reflection.  Upon  her  face 
sit  soft  attraction  and  tender  confidence.  What  joy  is  not  height- 
ened in  which  she  shares  ? What  brow  is  not  unbent  by  her  smiles  ? 
What  anger  can  resist  her  tears  ? Virginia  will  return  with  more 


56 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


philosophy  than  you,  and  will  be  surprised  not  to  find  the  garden 
finished  ; she  who  thought  of  its  embellishments  amid  the  persecu- 
tions of  her  aunt,  and  far  from  her  mother  and  from  you.” 

The  idea  of  Virginia’s  speedy  return  reanimated  her  lover’s  cour- 
age, and  he  resumed  his  pastoral  occupations,  happy  amid  his 
toils,  in  the  reflection  that  they  would  find  a termination  so  dear  to 
the  wishes  of  his  heart. 

The  24th  of  December,  1774,  at  break  of  day,  Paul,  when  he 
arose,  perceived  a white  flag  hoisted  upon  the  Mountain  of  Discov- 
ery, which  was  the  signal  of  a vessel  descried  at  sea.  He  flew  to  the 
town,  in  order  to  learn  if  this  vessel  brought  any  tidings  of  Virginia, 
and  waited  till  the  return  of  the  pilot,  who  had  gone  as  usual  to  visit 
the  ship.  The  pilot  brought  the  governor  information  that  the  ves- 
sel was  the  Saint  Geran,  of  seven  hundred  tons,  commanded  by  a 
captain  of  the  name  of  A.ubin  ; that  the  ship  was  now  four  leagues 
out  at  sea,  and  would  anchor  at  Port  Louis  the  following  afternoon, 
if  the  wind  was  favorable  ; at  present  there  was  a calm.  The  pilot 
then  remitted  to  the  governor  a number  of  letters  from  France, 
among  which  was  one  addressed  to  Madame  de  la  Tour  in  the 
handwriting  of  Virginia.  Paul  seized  upon  the  letter,  kissed  it  with 
transport,  placed  it  in  his  bosom,  and  flew  to  the  plantation.  No 
sooner  did  he  perceive  from  a distance  the  family  who  were  waiting 
his  return  upon  the  Farewell  Rock,  than  he  waved  the  letter  in  the 
air,  without  having  the  power  to  speak,  and  instantly  the  whole 
family  crowded  round  Madame  de  la  Tour  to  hear  it  read.  Virginia 
informed  her  mother  that  she  had  suffered  much  ill  treatment  from 
her  aunt,  who,  after  having  in  vain  urged  her  to  marry  against  her 
inclination,  had  disinherited  he:j ; and  at  length  sent  her  back  at 
such  a season  of  the  year  that  she  must  probably  reach  the  Mauri- 
tius at  the  very  period  ot  the  hurricanes.  In  vain,  she  added,  she 
had  endeavored  to  softer  her  aunt,  by  representing  what  she  owed 
to  her  mother  and  to  tho  habits  of  her  early  years  ; she  had  been 
treated  as  a romantic  girl  whose  head  was  turned  by  novels.  At 
present  she  said  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  transport  of  again 
seeing  and  embracing  her  beloved  family,  and  that  she  would  have 
satisfied  this  dearest  wish  of  her  heart  that  very  day  if  the  captain 
would  have  permitted  her  to  embark  in  the  pilot’s  boat ; but  that  he 
had  opposed  her  going,  on  account  of  the  distance  from  the  shore 
and  of  a swell  in  the  ocean,  notwithstanding  it  was  a calm. 

Scarcely  was  the  letter  finished  when  the  whole  family,  transported 
with  joy,  repeated,  “ Virginia  is  arrived!”  and  mistresses  and  ser- 
vants embraced  each  other.  Madame  de  la  Tour  said  to  Paul,  “ My 
son,  go  and  inform  our  neighbor  of  Virginia’s  arrival.”  Domingo  im- 
mediately lighted  a torch,  and  he  and  Paul  bent  their  way  toward 
my  plantation. 

It  was  about  ten  at  night,  and  I was  going  to  extinguish  my  lamp 
when  I perceived  through  the  palisades  of  my  hut  a light  in  the 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


57 


woods.  I arose,  and  had  just  dressed  myself  when  Paul,  half  wild 
and  panting  for  breath,  sprung  on  my  neck,  crying,  “ Come  along, 
come  along.  Virginia  is  arrived  ! Let  us  go  to  the  Port ; the  vessel 
will  anchor  at  break  of  day/’ 

We  instantly  set  off.  As  we  were  traversing  the  woods  of  the 
Sloping  Mountain,  and  were  already  on  the  road  which  leads  from 
the  Shaddock  Grove  to  the  Port,  1 heard  some  one  walking  behind 
us.  When  the  person,  who  was  a negro,  and  who  advanced  with 
hasty  steps,  had  reached  us,  I inquired  from  whence  he  came,  and 
whither  he  was  going  with  such  expedition.  He  answered,  “ I come 
from  that  part  of  the  island  called  Golden  Dust,  and  am  sent  to  the 
Port  to  inform  the  governor  that  a ship  from  France  has  anchored 
upon  the  island  of  Amber,  and  fires  guns  of  distress,  for  the  sea  is 
very  stormy.”  Having  said  this  the  man  left  us  and  pursued  his 
journey. 

“ Let  us  go,”  said  I to  Paul,  “ toward  that  part  of  the  island,  and 
meet  Virginia.  It  is  only  three  leagues  from  hence.  ” Accordingly 
we  bent  our  course  thither.  The  heat  was  suffocating.  The  moon 
had  risen,  and  it  was  encompassed  by  three  large  black  circles.  A 
dismal  darkness  shrouded  the  sky  ; but  the  frequent  flashes  of  light- 
ning discovered  long  chains  of  thick  clouds,  gloomy,  low  hung,  and 
heaped  together  over  the  middle  of  the  island,  after  having  rolled 
with  great  rapidity  from  the  ocean,  although  we  felt  not  a breath  of 
wind  upon  the  land.  As  we  walked  along  we  thought  we  heard 
peals  of  thunder  ; but  after  listening  more  attentively  we  found  they 
were  the  sound  of  distant  cannon  repeated  by  the  echoes.  Those 
sounds,  joined  to  the  tempestuous  aspect  of  the  heavens,  made  me 
shudder.  I had  little  doubt  that  they  were  signals  of  distress  from  a 
ship  in  danger.  In  half  an  hour  the  firing  ceased,  and  I felt  the 
silence  more-  appalling  than  the  dismal  sounds  which  had  preceded. 

We  hastened  on  without  uttering  a word  or  daring  to  communi- 
cate our  apprehensions.  At  midnight  we  arrived  on  the  sea-shore  at 
that  part  of  the  island.  The  billows  broke  against  the  beach  with  a 
horrible  noise,  covering  the  rocks  and  the  strand  with  their  foam  of  a 
dazzling  whiteness,  and  blended  with  sparks  of  fire.  By  their  phos- 
phoric gleams  we  distinguished,  notwithstanding  the  darkness,  the 
canoes  of  the  fishermen,  which  they  had  drawn  far  upon  the  sand. 

Near  the  shore,  at  the  entrance  of  a wood,  we  saw  a fire,  round 
which  several  of  the  inhabitants  were  assembled.  Thither  we  re- 
paired, in  order  to  repose  ourselves  till  morning.  One  of  the  circle 
related  that  in  the  afternoon  he  had  seen  a vessel  driven  toward  the 
island  by  the  currents  ; that  the  night  had  hid  it  from  his  view  ; and 
that  two  hours  after  sunset  he  had  heard  the  firing  of  guns  in  dis- 
tress ; but  that  the  sea  was  so  tempestuous  no  boat  could  venture 
out ; that  a short  time  after  he  thought  he  perceived  the  glimmer- 
ing of  the  watch-lights  on  board  the  vessel,  which  he  feared,  by  its 
having ‘approached  so  near  the  coast,  had  steered  between  the  main 


58 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


land  and  the  little  island  of  Amber,  mistaking  it  for  the  Point  of  En- 
deavor, near  which  the  vessels  pass  in  order  to  gain  Port  Louis.  If 
this  was  the  case,  which,  however,  he  could  not  affirm,  the  ship  he 
apprehended  was  in  great  danger.  Another  islander  then  informed 
us  that  he  had  frequently  crossed  the  channel  which  separates  the 
isle  of  Amber  from  the  coast,  and  which  he  had  sounded  ; that  the 
anchorage  was  good,  and  that  the  ship  would  there  be  in  as  great 
security  as  if  it  were  in  harbor.  A third  islander  declared  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  ship  to  enter  that  channel,  which  was  scarcely  navi- 
gable for  a boat.  He  asserted  that  he  had  seen  the  vessel  at  anchor 
beyond  the  isle  of  Amber,  so  that  if  the  wind  arose  in  the  morning 
it  could  either  put  to  sea  or  gain  the  harbor.  Different  opinions  were 
stated  upon  the  subject,  which,  while  those  indolent  Creoles  calmly 
discussed,  Paul  and  I observed  a profound  silence.  We  remained 
on  this  spot  till  break  of  day,  when  the  weather  was  too  hazy  to  ad- 
mit of  our  distinguishing  any  object  at  sea,  which  was  covered  with 
fog.  All  we  could  descry  was  a dark  cloud,  which  they  told  us  was 
the  isle  of  Amber,  at  the  distance  of  a quarter  of  a league  from  the 
coast.  We  could  only  discern  on  this  gloomy  day  the  point  of  the 
beach  where  we  stood,  and  the  peaks  of  some  mountains  in  the  inte- 
rior part  of  the  island,  rising  occasionally  from  amid  the  clouds 
which  hung  around  them. 

At  seven  in  the  morning  we  heard  the  beat  of  drums  in  the  woods, 
and  soon  after  the  governor,  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais,  arrived  on 
horseback,  followed  by  a detachment  of  soldiers  armed  with  mus- 
kets, and  a great  number  of  islanders  and  blacks.  He  ranged  his 
soldiers  upon  the  beach  and  ordered  them  to  make  a general  dis- 
charge, which  was  no  sooner  done  than  we  perceived  a glimmering 
light  upon  the  water,  which  was  instantly  succeeded  by  the  sound  of 
a gun.  We  judged  that  the  ship  was  at  no  great  distance,  and  ran 
toward  that  part  where  we  had  seen  the  light.  We  now  discerned 
through  the  fog  the  hull  and  tackling  of  a large  vessel ; and  not- 
withstanding the  noise  of  the  waves  we  were  near  enough  to  hear 
the  whistle  of  the  boatswain  at  the  helm  and  the  shouts  of  the  mar- 
iners. As  soon  as  the  Saint  Geran  perceived  that  we  were  near 
enough  to  give  her  succor,  she  continued  to  fire  guns  regularly  at 
the  interval  of  three  minutes.  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais  caused 
great  fires  to  be  lighted  at  certain  distances  upon  the  strand,  and  sent 
to  all  the  inhabitants  of  that  neighborhood,  in  search  of  provisions, 
planks,  cables,  and  empty  barrels.  A crowd  of  people  soon  arrived, 
accompanied  by  their  negroes,  loaded  with  provisions  and  rigging. 
One  of  the  most  aged  of  the  planters,  approaching  the  governor,  said 
to  him,  “ We  have  heard  all  night  hoarse  noises  in  the  mountain  and 
in  the  forests  ; the  leaves  of  the  trees  are  shaken,  although  there  is  no 
wind  ; the  sea-birds  seek  refuge  upon  the  land  ; it  is  certain  that  all 
those  signs  announce  a hurricane.,,  “ Well,  my  friends,”  answered 
the  governor,  “ we  are  prepared  for  it ; and  no  doubt  the  vessel  is  also.  ” 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


59 


Everything,  indeed,  presaged  the  near  approach  of  the  hurricane. 
The  centre  of  the  clouds  in  the  zenith  was  of  a dismal  black,  whik 
their  skirts  were  fringed  with  a copper  hue.  The  air  resounded  witl? 
the  cries  of  the  frigate-bird,  the  cur- water,  and  a multitude  of  other 
sea-birds,  who,  notwithstanding  the  obscurity  of  the  atmosphere, 
hastened  from  all  points  of  the  horizon  to  seek  for  shelter  in  thd 
island. 

Toward  nine  in  the  morning  we  heard  on  the  side  of  the  ocean  th<f 
most  terrific  noise,  as  if  torrents  of  water,  mingled  with  thunder, 
were  rolling  down  the  steeps  of  the  mountains.  A general  cry  was 
heard  of  “ There  is  the  hurricane  !”  and  in  one  moment  a frightful 
whirlwind  scattered  the  fog  which  had  covered  the  isle  of  Amber 
and  its  channel.  The  Saint  Geran  then  presented  itself  to  our  view, 
her  gallery  crowded  with  people,  her  yards  and  maintopmast  laid 
upon  the  deck,  her  flag  shivered,  with  four  cables  at  her  head,  and 
one  by  which  she  was  Yield  at  the  stern.  She  had  anchored  between 
the  isle  of  Amber  and  the  main  land,  within  that  chain  of  breakers 
which  encircles  the  island,  and  which  bar  she  had  passed  over,  in  a 
place  where  no  vessel  had  ever  gone  before.  She  presented  head  to 
the  waves  which  rolled  from  the  open  sea  ; and  as  each  billow  rushed 
into  the  straits  the  ship  heaved  so  that  her  keel  was  in  air,  and  at 
the  same  moment  her  stern,  plunging  into  the  water,  disappeared 
altogether  as  if  it  were  swallowed  up  by  the  surges.  In  this  posi- 
tion, driven  by  the  winds  and  waves  toward  the  shore,  it  was 
equally  impossible  for  her  to  return  by  the  passage  through  which 
she  had  made  her  way,  or,  by  cutting  her  cables,  to  throw  herself 
upon  the  beach,  from  which  she  was  separated  by  sand-banks  min- 
gled with  breakers.  Every  billow  which  broke  upon  the  coast  ad- 
vanced roaring  to  the  bottom  of  the  bay  and  threw  planks  to  the 
distance  of  fifty  feet  upon  the  land  ; then  rushing  back  laid  bare  its 
sandy  bed,  from  which  it  rolled  immense  stones, with  a hoarse,  dismal 
noise.  The  sea,  swelled  by  the  violence  of  the  wind,  rose  higher 
every  moment  ; and  the  channel  between  this  island  and  the  isle  of 
Amber  was  but  one  vast  sheet  of  white  foam,  with  yawning  pits  of 
black  deep  billows.  The  foam  boiling  in  the  gulf  was  more  than  six 
feet  high  ; and  the  winds  which  swept  its  surface  bore  it  over  the 
steep  coast  more  than  half  a league  upon  the  land.  Those  innumera- 
ble white  flakes,  driven  horizontally  as  far  as  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain, appeared  like  snow  issuing  from  the  ocean,  which  was  now 
confounded  with  the  sky.  Thick  clouds  of  a horrible  form  swept 
along  the  zenith  with  the  swiftness  of  birds,  while  others  appeared 
motionless  as  rocks.  No  spot  of  azure  could  be  discerned  in  the 
firmament ; only  a pale  yellow  gleam  displayed  the  objects  of  earth, 
sea,  and  skies. 

From  the  violent  efforts  of  the  ship,  what  we  dreaded  happened. 
The  cables  at  the  head  of  the  vessel  were  torn  away  ; it  was  then 
held  by  one  anchor  only,  and  was  instantly  dashed  upon  the  rocks,  at 


60 


PAUL  ANI)  VIRGINIA. 


the  distance  of  half  a cable’s  length  from  the  shore.  A general  cry 
of  horror  issued  from  the  spectators.  Paul  rushed  toward  the  sea, 
when,  seizing  him  by  the  arm,  I exclaimed,  “ Would  you  perish?” 
“ Let  me  go  to  save  her,”  cried  he,  “ or  die  !”  Seeing  that  despair 
deprived  him  of  reason,  Domingo  and  I,  in  order  to  preserve  him, 
fastened  a long  cord  round  his  waist  and  seized  hold  of  each  end 
Paul  then  precipitated  himself  toward  the  ship,  now  swimming,  and 
now  walking  upon  the  breakers.  Sometimes  he  had  the  hope  of 
reaching  the  vessel,  which  the  sea,  in  its  irregular  movements,  had 
left  almost  dry,  so  that  you  could  have  made  its  circuit  on  foot  ; but 
~ suddenly  the  waves,  advancing  with  new  fury,  shrouded  it  beneatli 
mountains  of  water,  which  then  lifted  it  upright  upon  its  keel.  The 
billows  at  the  same  moment  threw  the  unfortunate  Paul  far  upon  the 
beach,  his  legs  bathed  in  blood,  his  bosom  wounded,  and  himself  half 
dead.  The  moment  he  had  recovered  his  senses  he  arose,  and 
returned  with  new  ardor  toward  the  vessel,  the  parts  of  which  now 
yawned  asunder  from  the  violent  strokes  of  the  billows.  The  crew, 
then  despairing  of  their  safety,  threw  themselves  in  crowds  into  the 
sea,  upon  yards,  planks,  hen-coops,  tables,  and  barrels.  At  this  mo- 
ment we  beheld  an  object  fitted  to  excite  eternal  sympathy — a young 
lady  in  the  gallery  of  the  stern  of  the  Saint  Geran,  stretching  out  her 
arms  toward  him  who  made  so  many  efforts  to  join  her.  It  was 
Virginia.  She  had  discovered  her  lover  by  his  intrepidity.  The 
sight  of  this  amiable  young  woman,  exposed  to  such  horrible  dan- 
ger, filled  us  with  unutterable  despair.  As  for  Virginia,  with  a firm 
and  dignified  mien  she  waved  her  hand  as  if  bidding  us  an  eternal 
farewell.  All  the  sailors  had  flung  themselves  into  the  sea  except  one, 
who  still  remained  upon  the  deck,  and  who  was  naked,  and  strong  as 
Hercules.  This  man  approached  Virginia  with  respect,  and,  kneel- 
ing at  her  feet,  attempted  to  force  her  to  throw  off  her  clothes  ; but 
she  repulsed  him  with  modesty,  and  turned  away  her  head.  Then 
were  heard  redoubled  cries  from  the  spectators,  “ Save  her  ! save 
her  ! Do  not  leave  her  !”  But  at  that  moment  a mountain  billow 
of  enormous  magnitude  engulfed  itself  between  the  isle  of  Amber 
and  the  coast,  and  menaced  the  shattered  vessel,  toward  which  it 
rolled  bellowing,  with  its  black  sides  and  foaming  head.  At  this  ter- 
rible sight  the  sailor  flung  himself  into  the  sea  ; and  Virginia,  seeing 
death  inevitable,  placed  one  hand  upon  her  clothes,  the  other  on  her 
heart,  and,  lifting  up  her  lovely  eyes,  seemed  an  angel  prepared  to 
take  her  flight  to  heaven. 

Oh,  day  of  horror  ! Alas  ! everything  was  swallowed  up  by  the 
relentless  billows.  The  surge  threw  some  of  the  spectators  far  upon 
the  beach,  whom  an  impulse  of  humanity  prompted  to  advance  to- 
ward Virginia,  and  also  the  sailor  who  had  endeavored  to  save  her 
life.  This  man,  who  had  escaped  from  almost  certain  death,  kneel- 
ing on  the  sand  exclaimed,  “ Oh,  my  God  ! thou  hast  saved  my  life, 
but  I would  have  given  it  willingly  for  that  poor  young  woman  !” 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


61 


Domingo  and  myself  drew  Paul  senseless  to  the  shore,  the  blood 
flowing  from  his  mouth  and  ears.  The  governor  put  him  into  the 
hands  of  a surgeon,  while  we  sought  along  the  beach  for  the  corpse 
of  Virginia.  But  the  wind  having  suddenly  changed,  which  fre- 
quently happens  during  hurricanes,  our  search  was  in  vain  ; and  we 
lamented  that  we  could  not  even  pay  this  unfortunate  young  woman 
the  last  sad  sepulchral  duties. 

We  retired  from  the  spot  overwhelmed  with  dismay,  and  oui 
minds  wholly  occupied  by  one  cruel  loss,  although  numbers  had  per- 
ished in  the  wreck.  Some  of  the  spectators  seemed  tempted,  from 
the  fatal  destiny  of  this  virtuous  young  woman,  to  doubt  the  exist- 
ence of  Providence.  Alas  ! there  are  in  life  such  terrible,  such 
unmerited  evils  that  even  the  hope  of  the  wise  is  sometimes  shaken. 

In  the  mean  time  Paul,  who  began  to  recover  his  senses,  was 
taken  to  a house  in  the  neighborhood  till  he  was  able  to  be  removed 
to  his  own  habitation.  Thither  I bent  my  way  with  Domingo,  and 
undertook  the  sad  task  of  preparing  Virginia’s  mother  and  her  friend 
for  the  melancholy  event  which  had  happened.  When  we  reached 
the  entrance  of  the  valley  of  the  River  of  Fan-Palms,  some  negroes 
informed  us  that  the  sea  had  thrown  many  pieces  of  the  wreck  into 
the  opposite  bay.  We  descended  toward  it,  and  one  of  the  first  ob- 
jects which  struck  my  sight  upon  the  beach  was  the  corpse  of  Vir- 
ginia. The  body  was  half  covered  with  sand,  and  in  the  attitude  in 
which  we  had  seen  her  perish.  Her  features  were  not  changed  ; her 
eyes  were  closed,  her  countenance  was  still  serene  ; but  the  pale 
violets  of  death  were  blended  on  her  cheek  with  the  blush  of  virgin 
modesty.  One  of  her  hands  was  placed  upon  her  clothes,  and  the 
other,  which  she  held  on  her  heart,  was  fast  closed,  and  so  stiffened 
that  it  was  with  difficulty  I took  from  its  grasp  a small  box.  How 
great  was  my  emotion  when  I saw  it  contained  the  picture  of  Paul, 
which  she  had  promised  him  never  to  part  with  while  she  lived  ! At 
the  sight  of  this  last  mark  of  the  fidelity  and  tenderness  of  the  unfor- 
tunate girl,  I wept  bitterly.  As  for  Domingo,  he  beat  his  breast  and 
pierced  the  air  with  his  cries.  We  carried  the  body  of  Virginia  to  a 
fisher’s  hut,  and  gave  it  in  charge  of  some  poor  Malabar  women, 
who  carefully  washed  away  the  sand. 

While  they  were  employed  in  this  melancholy  office  we  ascended 
with  trembling  steps  to  the  plantation.  We  found  Madame  de  la 
Tour  and  Margaret  at  prayer,  while  waiting  for  tidings  from  the 
ship.  As  soon  as  Madame  de  la  Tour  saw  me  coming,  she  eagerly 
cried,  “Where  is  my  child,  my  dear  child?”  My  silence  and  my 
tears  apprised  her  of  her  misfortune.  She  was  seized  with  convul- 
sive stillings,  with  agonizing  pains,  and  her  voice  was  only  heard  in 
groans.  Margaret  cried,  ‘ ‘ Where  is  my  son  ? I do  not  see  my 
son  !”  and  fainted.  We  ran  to  her  assistance.  In  a short  time  she 
recovered,  and  being  assured  that  her  son  was  safe,  and  under  the 
care  of  the  governor,  she  only  thought  of  succoring  her  friend,  who 


62 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


had  long  successive  faintings.  Madame  de  la  Tour  passed  the  night 
in  sufferings  so  exquisite  that  I became  convinced  there  was  no 
sorrow  like  a mother’s  sorrow.  When  she  recovered  her  senses  she 
cast  her  languid  and  steadfast  looks  on  heaven.  In  vain  her  friend 
and  myself  pressed  her  hands  in  ours  ; in  vain  we  called  upon  her 
by  the  most  tender  names  ; she  appeared  wholly  insensible,  and  her 
oppressed  bosom  heaved  deep  and  hollow  moans. 

In  the  morning  Paul  was  brought  home  in  a palanquin.  He  was 
now  restored  to  reason,  but  unable  to  utter  a word.  His  interview 
with  his  mother  and  Madame  de  la  Tour,  which  I had  dreaded,  pro- 
duced a better  effect  than  all  my  cares.  A ray  of  consolation 
gleamed  upon  the  countenances  of  those  unfortunate  mothers.  They 
flew  to  meet  him,  clasped  him  in  their  arms,  and  bathed  him  with 
tears,  which  excess  of  anguish  had  till  now  forbidden  to  flow.  Paul 
mixed  his  tears  with  theirs  ; and  nature  having  thus  found  relief,  a 
long  stupor  succeeded  the  convulsive  pangs  they  had  suffered,  and 
gave  them  a lethargic  repose  like  that  of  death. 

Monsieur  de  la  Bourdonnais  sent  to  apprise  me  secretly  that  the 
corpse  of  Virginia  had  been  borne  to  the  town  by  his  order,  from 
whence  it  was  to  be  transferred  to  the  church  of  the  Shaddock  Grove. 
I hastened  to  Port  Louis,  and  found  a multitude  assembled  from  all 
parts  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  funeral  solemnity,  as  if  the  whole 
island  had  lost  its  fairest  ornament.  The  vessels  in  the  harbor  had 
their  yards  crossed,  their  flags  hoisted,  and  fired  guns  at  intervals. 
The  grenadiers  led  the  funeral  procession,  with  their  muskets  re- 
versed, their  drums  muffled,  and  sending  forth  slow  dismal  sounds. 
Eight  young  ladies  of  the  most  considerable  families  of  the  island, 
dressed  in  white  and  bearing  palms  in  their  hands,  supported  the 
pall  of  their  amiable  companion,  which  was  strewed  with  flowers. 
They  were  followed  by  a band  of  children  chanting  hymns,  and  by 
the  governor,  his  field  officers,  all  the  principal  inhabitants  of  the 
island,  and  an  immense  crowd  of  people. 

This  funeral  solemnity  had  been  ordered  by  the  administration  of 
the  country,  who  were  desirous  of  rendering  honors  to  the  virtue  of 
Virginia.  But  when  the  procession  arrived  at  the  foot  of  this  moun- 
tain, at  the  sight  of  those  cottages,  of  which  she  had  so  long  been 
the  ornament  and  happiness,  and  which  her  loss  now  filled  with  de. 
spair,  the  funeral  pomp  was  interrupted,  the  hymns  and  anthems 
ceased,  and  the  plain  resounded  with  sighs  and  lamentations.  Com- 
panies of  young  girls  ran  from  the  neighboring  plantations  to  touch 
the  coffin  of  Virginia  with  their  scarfs,  chaplets,  and  crowns  of 
flowers,  invoking  her  as  a saint.  Mothers  asked  of  Heaven  a child 
like  Virginia  ; lovers,  a heart  as  faithful ; the  poor,  as  tender  a 
friend  ; and  the  slaves,  as  kind  a mistress. 

When  the  procession  had  reached  the  place  of  interment,  the 
negresses  of  Madagascar  and  the  caffrees  of  Mozambique,  placed 
baskets  of  fruit  around  the  corpse,  and  hung  pieces  of  stuff  upon  the 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


63 


neighboring  trees,  according  to  the  custom  of  their  country.  The 
Indians  of  Bengal  and  of  the  coast  of  Malabar  brought  cages  filled 
with  birds,  which  they  set  at  liberty  upon  her  coffin.  Thus  did  the 
loss  of  this  amiable  object  affect  the  natives  of  different  countries, 
and  thus  was  the  ritual  of  various  religions  breathed  over  the  tomb 
of  unfortunate  virtue. 

She  was  interred  near  the  church  of  the  Shaddock  Grove,  upon  the 
western  side,  at  the  foot  of  a copse  of  bamboos,  where,  in  coming 
from  mass  with  her  mother  and  Margaret,  she  loved  to  repose  her- 
self, seated  by  him  whom  she  called  her  brother. 

On  his  return  from  the  funeral  solemnity,  Monsieur  de  la  Bourdon- 
nais  came  hither,  followed  by  part  of  his  numerous  train.  He 
offered  Madame  de  la  Tour  and  her  friend  all  the  assistance  which  it 
was  in  his  power  to  bestow.  After  expressing  his  indignation  at  the 
conduct  of  her  unnatural  aunt,  he  advanced  to  Paul,  and  said  every- 
thing which  he  thought  most  likely  to  soothe  and  console  him. 
“ Heaven  is  my  witness,”  said  he,  “ that  I wished  to  insure  your 
happiness  and  that  of  your  family.  My  dear  friend,  you  must  go 
to  France  ; I will  obtain  a commission  for  you,  and  during  your  ab- 
sence will  take  the  same  care  of  your  mother  as  if  she  were  my 
own.  ’ ’ He  then  offered  him  his  hand  ; but  Paul  drew  away  and 
turned  his  head,  unable  to  bear  his  sight. 

I remained  at  the  plantation  of  my  unfortunate  friends,  that  I 
might  render  to  them  and  Paul  those  offices  of  friendship  which 
soften  though  they  cannot  cure  calamity.  At  the  end  of  three 
weeks  Paul  was  able  to  walk,  yet  his  mind  seemed  to  droop  in  pro- 
portion as  his  frame  gathered  strength.  He  was  insensible  to  every- 
thing, his  look  was  vacant,  and  when  spoken  to  he  made  no  reply. 
Madame  de  la  Tour,  who  was  dying,  said  to  him  often,  “My  son, 
while  I look  at  you  I think  I see  Virginia.”  At  the  name  of  Vir- 
ginia he  shuddered,  and  hastened  from  her,  notwithstanding  the  en- 
treaties of  his  mother,  who  called  him  back  to  her  friend.  He  used 
to  wander  into  the  garden  and  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  Virginia’s 
cocoa-tree,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fountain.  The  surgeon  to 
the  governor,  who  had  shown  the  most  humane  attention  to  Paul 
and  the  whole  family,  told  us  that,  in  order  to  cure  that  deep  melan- 
choly which  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  we  must  allow  him 
to  do  whatever  he  pleased,  without  contradiction,  as  the  only  means 
of  conquering  his  inflexible  silence. 

I resolved  to  follow  this  advice.  The  first  use  which  Paul  made 
of  his  returning  strength  was  to  absent  himself  from  the  plantation. 
Being  determined  not  to  lose  sight  of  him,  I set  out  immediately,  and 
desired  Domingo  to  take  some  provisions  and  accompany  us.  Paul’s 
strength  and  spirits  seemed  renewed  as  he  descended  the  mountain. 
He  took  the  road  of  the  Shaddock  Grove  ; and  when  he  was  near 
the  church,  in  the  Alley  of  Bamboos,  he  walked  directly  to  the  spot 
where  he  saw  some  new-laid  earth,  and  there  kneeling  down  and 


64 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


raising  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  offered  up  a long  prayer,  which  ap- 
peared to  me  a symptom  of  returning  reason,  since  this  mark  of 
confidence  in  the  Supreme  Being  showed  that  his  mind  began  to  re- 
sume its  natural  functions.  Domingo  and  I followed  Ins  example, 
fell  upon  our  knees,  and  mingled  our  prayers  with  his.  When  he 
arose,  he  bent  his  way,  paying  little  attention  to  us,  toward  the 
northern  part  of  the  island.  As  we  knew  that  he  was  not  only  igno- 
rant of  the  spot  where  the  body  of  Virginia  was  laid,  but  even 
whether  it  had  been  snatched  from  the  waves,  I asked  him  why  he 
had  offered  up  his  prayer  at  the  foot  of  those  bamboos.  He  an- 
swered, “We  have  been  there  so  often  !”  He  continued  his  course 
until  we  reached  the  borders  of  the  forest,  when  night  came  on.  I 
prevailed  with  him  to  take  some  nourishment ; and  we  slept  upon 
the  grass  at  the  foot  of  a tree.  The  next  day  I thought  he  seemed 
disposed  to  trace  back  his  steps  ; for,  after  having  gazed  a consider- 
able time  upon  the  church  of  the  Shaddock  Grove,  with  its  avenues 
of  bamboos  stretching  along  the  plain,  he  made  a motion  as  if  he 
would  return  ; but,  suddenly  plunging  into  the  forest,  he  directed  his 
course  to  the  north.  I judged  what  was  his  design,  from  which  I 
endeavored  to  dissuade  him  in  vain.  At  noon  he  arrived  at  that  part 
of  the  island  called  the  Gold  Dust.  He  rushed  to  the  sea-shore,  op- 
posite to  the  spot  where  the  Saint  Geran  perished.  At  the  sight  of 
the  isle  of  Amber  and  its  channel,  then  smooth  as  a mirror,  he  cried, 
“ Virginia  ! Oh,  my  dear  Virginia  !”  and  fell  senseless.  Domingo 
and  myself  carried  him  into  the  woods,  where  we  recovered  him  with 
some  difficulty.  He  made  an  effort  to  return  to  the  sea-shore  ; but 
having  conjured  him  not  to  renew  his  own  anguish  and  ours  by  those 
cruel  remembrances,  he  took  another  direction.  During  eight  days 
he  sought  every  spot  where  he  had  once  wandered  with  the  compan 
ion  of  his  childhood.  He  traced  the  path  by  which  she  had  gone  to 
intercede  for  the  slave  of  the  Black  River.  He  gazed  again  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Three  Peaks,  where  she  had  reposed  herself  when  un- 
able to  walk  farther,  and  upon  that  part  of  the  wood  where  they 
lost  their  way.  All  those  haunts,  which  recalled  the  inquietudes, 
the  sports,  the  repasts,  the  benevolence  of  her  he  loved,  the  river  of 
the  Sloping  Mountain,  my  house,  the  neighboring  cascade,  the  pa- 
paw -tree  she  had  planted,  the  mossy  downs  where  she  loved  to  run, 
the  openings  of  the  forest  where  she  used  to  sing,  called  forth  suc- 
cessively the  tears  of  hopeless  passion  ; and  those  very  echoes  which 
had  so  often  resounded  their  mutual  shouts  of  joy  now  only  repeated 
those  accenls  of  despair,  “ Virginia  ! Oh,  my  dear  Virginia  !” 

While  he  led  this  savage  and  wandering  life,  his  eyes  became  sunk 
and  hollow,  his  skin  assumed  a yellow  tint,  and  his  health  rapidly 
decayed.  Convinced  that  present  sufferings  are  rendered  more  acute 
by  the  bitter  recollection  of  past  pleasures,  and  that  the  passions 
gather  strength  in  solitude,  I resolved  to  tear  my  unfortunate  friend 
from  those  scenes  which  recalled  the  remembrance  of  his  loss,  and 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


65 


to  lead  him  to  a more  busy  part  of  the  island.  With  this  view  I 
conducted  him  to  the  inhabited  heights  of  Williams,  which  he  had 
never  visited,  and  where  agriculture  and  commerce  ever  occasioned 
much  bustle  and  variety.  A crowd  of  carpenters  were  employed  in 
hewing  down  the  trees,  while  others  were  sawing  planks.  Carriages 
were  passing  and  repassing  on  the  roads.  Numerous  herds  of  oxen 
and  troops  of  horses  were  feeding  on  those  ample  meadows,  over 
which  a number  of  habitations  were  scattered.  On  many  spots  the 
elevation  of  the  soil  was  favorable  to  the  culture  of  European  trees  ; 
ripe  corn  waved  its  yellow  sheaves  upon  the  plains  ; strawberry  plants 
flourished  in  the  openings  of  the  woods,  and  hedges  of  rosebushes 
along  the  roads.  The  freshness  of  the  air,  by  giving  a tension  to 
the  nerves,  was  favorable  to  the  Europeans.  From  those  heights, 
situated  near  the  middle  of  the  island  and  surrounded  by  extensive 
forests,  you  could  neither  discern  Port  Louis,  the  church  of  the  Shad- 
dock Grove,  nor  any  other  object  which  could  recall  to  Paul  the 
remembrance  of  Virginia.  Even  the  mountains,  which  appear  of 
various  shapes  on  the  side  of  Port  Louis,  present  nothing  to  the  eye 
from  those  plains  but  a long  promontory,  stretching  itself  in  a straight 
and  perpendicular  line,  from  whence  arise  lofty  pyramids  of  rocks, 
on  the  summits  of  which  the  clouds  repose. 

To  those  scenes  I conducted  Paul,  and  kept  him  continually  in  ac- 
tion, walking  with  him  in  rain  and  sunshine,  night  and  day,  and  con- 
triving that  he  should  lose  himself  in  the  depths  of  forests,  leading 
him  over  untilled  grounds,  and  endeavoring,  by  violent  fatigue,  to 
divert  his  mind  from  its  gloomy  meditations,  and  change  the  course 
of  his  reflections  by  his  ignorance  of  the  paths  where  we  wandered. 
But  the  soul  of  a lover  finds  everywhere  the  traces  of  the  object  be- 
loved. The  night  and  the  day,  the  calm  of  solitude  and  the  tumult 
of  crowds,  time  itself,  while  it  casts  the  shade  of  oblivion  over  so 
many  other  remembrances,  in  vain  would  tear  that  tender  and  sacred 
recollection  from  the  heart,  which,  like  the  needle  when  touched  by 
the  loadstone,  however  it  may  have  been  forced  into  agitation,  it  is 
no  sooner  left  to  repose  than  it  turns  to  the  pole  by  which  it  is  at- 
tracted. When  I inquired  of  Paul,  while  we  wandered  amid  the 
plains  of  Williams,  “ Where  are  we  now  going  ?”  he  pointed  to  the 
north  and  said,  “ Yonder  are  our  mountains  ; let  us  return.’ * 

Upon  the  whole,  I found  that  every  means  I took  to  divert  his 
melancholy  was  fruitless,  and  that  no  resource  was  left  but  an  attempt 
to  combat  his  passion  by  the  arguments  which  reason  suggested.  I 
answered  him,  “ Yes,  there  are  the  mountains  where  once  dwelt 
your  beloved  Virginia;  and  this  is  the  picture  you  gave  her,  and 
which  she  held,  when  dying,  to  her  heart,  that  heart  which  even  in 
her  last  moments  only  beat  for  you.”  I then  gave  Paul  the  little 
picture  which  he  had  given  Virginia  at  the  borders  of  the  cocoa-tree 
fountain.  At  this  sight  a gloomy  joy  overspread  his  looks.  He 
eagerly  seized  the  picture  with  his  feeble  hands,  and  held  it  to  his 


66 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


lips.  His  oppressed  bosom  seemed  ready  to  burst  with  emotion,  and 
liis  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  which  had  no  power  to  flow. 

“My  son,’  ’ said  I,  “listen  to  him  who  is  your  friend,  who  was 
the  friend  of  Virginia,  and  who,  in  the  bloom  of  your  hopes,  endeav- 
ored to  fortify  your  mind  against  the  unforeseen  accidents  of  life. 
What  do  you  deplore  with  such  bitterness?  Your  own  misfortunes 
or  those  of  Virginia?  Your  own  misfortunes  are  indeed  severe. 
You  have  lost  the  most  amiable  of  women — she  who  sacrificed  her 
own  interests  to  yours,  who  preferred  you  to  all  that  fortune  could 
bestow,  and  considered  you  as  the  only  recompense  worthy  of  her 
virtues.  But  might  not  this  very  object,  from  whom  you  expected 
the  purest  happiness,  have  proved  to  you  a source  of  the  most  cruel 
distress  ? She  had  returned  poor,  disinherited  ; and  all  you  could 
henceforth  have  partaken  with  her  was  your  labors  ; while  rendered 
more  delicate  by  her  education,  and  more  courageous  by  her  misfor- 
tunes, you  would  have  beheld  her  every  day  sinking  beneath  her 
efforts  to  share  and  soften  your  fatigues.  Had  she  brought  you 
children,  this  would  only  have  served  to  increase  her  inquietudes  and 
your  own,  from  the  difficulty  of  sustaining  your  aged  parents  and 
your  infant  family.  You  will  tell  me,  there  would  have  been  re- 
served to  you  a happiness  independent  of  fortune,  that  of  protecting 
a beloved  object,  which  attaches  itself  to  us  in  proportion  to  its  help- 
lessness ; that  your  pains  and  sufferings  would  have  served  to  endear 
you  to  each  other,  and  that  your  passion  would  have  gathered 
strength  from  your  mutual  misfortunes.  Undoubtedly  virtuous  love 
can  shed  a charm  over  pleasures  which  are  thus  mingled  with  bitter- 
ness. But  Virginia  is  no  more  ; yet  those  persons  still  live  whom, 
next  to  yourself,  she  held  most  dear  ; her  mother  and  your  own, 
whom  your  inconsolable  affliction  is  bending  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  Place  your  happiness,  as  she  did  hers,  in  affording  them 
succor.  And  why  deplore  the  fate  of  Virginia?  Virginia  still  ex- 
ists. There  is,  be  assured,  a region  in  which  virtue  receives  its  re- 
ward. Virginia  now  is  happy.  Ah  ! if,  from  the  abode  of  angels, 
she  could  tell  you,  as  she  did  when  she  bid  you  farewell,  ‘ Oh,  Paul ! 
life  is  but  a trial.  I was  faithful  to  the  laws  of  nature,  love,  and 
virtue.  Heaven  found  I had  fulfilled  my  duties,  and  has  snatched 
me  forever  from  all  the  miseries  I might  have  endured  myself,  and 
all  I might  have  felt  for  the  miseries  of  others.  I am  placed  above 
the  reach  of  all  human  evils,  and  you  pity  me  ! I am  become  pure 
and  unchangeable  as  a particle  of  light,  and  you  would  recall  me  to 
the  darkness  of  human  life  ! Oh,  Paul  ! oh,  my  beloved  friend  ! 
recollect  those  days  of  happiness,  when  in  the  morning  we  felt  the 
delightful  sensations  excited  by  the  unfolding  beauties  of  nature  ; 
when  we  gazed  upon  the  sun  gilding  the  peaks  of  those  rocks,  and 
then  spreading  his  rays  over  the  bosom  of  the  forests.  How  exquisite 
were  our  emotions  while  we  enjoyed  the  glowing  colors  of  the  open- 
ing day,  the  odors  of  our  shrubs,  the  concerts  of  our  birds  ! Now, 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


67 


at  the  source  of  beauty,  from  which  flows  all  that  is  delightful  upon 
earth,  my  soul  intuitively  sees,  tastes,  hears,  touches,  what  before 
she  could  only  be  made  sensible  of  through  the  medium  of  our  weak 
organs.  Ah  ! what  language  can  describe  those  shores  of  eternal 
bliss  which  I inhabit  forever  ? All  that  infinite  power  and  celestial 
bounty  can  confer,  that  harmony  which  results  from  friendship  with 
numberless  beings,  exulting  in  the  same  felicity,  we  enjoy  in  un- 
mixed perfection.  Support  then  the  trial  which  is  allotted  you,  that 
you  may  heighten  the  happiness  of  your  Virginia  by  love  which  will 
know  no  termination,  by  hymeneals  which  will  be  immortal.  There 
I will  calm  your  regrets,  I will  wipe  away  your  tears.  Oh,  my  be- 
loved friend  ! my  husband  ! raise  your  thoughts  toward  infinite  dura- 
tion, and  bear  the  evils  of  a moment.’  ” 

My  own  emotion  choked  my  utterance.  Paul,  looking  at  me 
steadfastly,  cried,  “ She  is  no  more  ! She  is  no  more  !”  and  a long 
fainting  fit  succeeded  that  melancholy  exclamation.  When  restored 
to  himself,  he  said,  “ Since  death  is  a good,  and  since  Virginia  is 
happy,  I would  die  too,  and  be  united  to  Virginia.”  Thus  the  mo- 
tives of  consolation  I had  offered  only  served  to  nourish  his  despair. 
I was  like  a man  who  attempts  to  save  a friend  sinking  in  the  midst 
of  a flood  and  refusing  to  swim.  Sorrow  had  overwhelmed  his  soul. 
Alas  ! the  misfortunes  of  early  years  prepare  man  for  the  struggles 
of  life  ; but  Paul  had  never  known  adversity. 

I led  him  back  to  his  own  dwelling,  where  I found  his  mother  and 
Madame  de  la  Tour  in  a state  of  increased  languor,  but  Margaret 
drooped  most.  Those  lively  characters  upon  which  light  afflictions 
make  a small  impression  are  least  capable  of  resisting  great  calamities. 

“ Oh,  my  good  friend,”  said  Margaret,  ” methought  last  night  I 
saw  Virginia  dressed  in  white,  amid  delicious  bowers  and  gardens. 
She  said  to  me,  ‘ I enjoy  the  most  perfect  happiness  and  then  ap- 
proaching Paul  with  a smiling  air  she  bore  him  away.  While  I 
struggled  to  retain  my  son,  I felt  that  I myself  was  quitting  the 
earth,  and  that  I followed  him  with  inexpressible  delight.  I then 
wished  to  bid  my  friend  farewell,  when  I saw  she  was  hastening  after 
me  with  Mary  and  Domingo.  But  what  seems  most  strange  is,  that 
Madame  de  la  Tour  has  this  very  night  had  a dream  attended  with 
the  same  circumstances.” 

“ My  dear  friend,”  I replied,  “ nothing,  I believe,  happens  in  this 
world  without  the  permission  of  God.  Dreams  sometimes  foretell 
the  truth.” 

Madame  de  la  Tour  related  to  me  her  dream,  which  was  exactly  sim- 
ilar ; and  as  I had  never  observed  in  either  of  those  persons  any  pro- 
pensity to  superstition,  I was  struck  with  the  singular  coincidence  of 
their  dreams,  which  I had  little  doubt  would  soon  be  realized. 

What  I expected  took  place.  Paul  died  two  months  after  the 
death  of  Virginia,  whose  name  dwelt  upon  his  lips  even  in  his  ex- 
piring moments.  Eight  days  after  the  death  of  her  son,  Margaret 


68 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


saw  her  last  hour  approach  with  that  serenity  which  virtue  only  can 
feel.  She  bade  Madame  de  la  Tour  the  most  tender  farewell,  “ in  the 
hope/’  she  said,  “ of  a sweet  and  eternal  reunion.  Death  is  the  most 
precious  good,”  added  she,  “ and  we  ought  to  desire  it.  If  life  be  a 
punishment,  we  should  wish  for  its  termination  ; if  it  be  a trial,  we 
should  be  thankful  that  it  is  short.” 

The  governor  took  care  of  Domingo  and  Mary,  who  were  no 
longer  able  to  labor,  and  who  survived  their  mistresses  but  a short 
time.  As  for  poor  Fidele,  he  pined  to  death  at  the  period  he  lost  his 
master. 

I conducted  Madame  de  la  Tour  to  my  dwelling,  and  she  bore  the 
calamities  with  elevated  fortitude.  She  had  endeavored  to  comfort 
Paul  and  Margaret  till  their  last  moments,  as  if  she  herself  had  no 
agonies  to  bear.  When  they  were  no  more,  she  used  to  talk  of  them 
as  of  beloved  friends,  from  whom  she  was  not  distant.  She  survived 
them  but  one  month.  Far  from  reproaching  her  aunt  for  those 
afflictions  she  had  caused,  her  benign  spirit  prayed  to  God  to  pardon 
her,  and  to  appease  that  remorse  which  the  consequences  of  her 
cruelty  would  probably  awaken  in  her  breast. 

I heard,  by  successive  vessels  which  arrived  from  Europe,  that 
this  unnatural  relation,  haunted  by  a troubled  conscience,  accused 
herself  continually  of  the  untimely  fate  of  her  lovely  niece,  and  the 
death  of  her  mother,  and  became  at  intervals  bereft  of  her  reason. 
Her  relations,  whom  she  hated,  took  the  direction  of  her  fortune, 
after  shutting  her  up  as  a lunatic,  though  she  possessed  sufficient  use 
of  her  reason  to  feel  all  the  pangs  of  her  dreadful  situation,  and  died 
at  length  in  agonies  of  despair. 

The  body  of  Paul  was  placed  by  the  side  of  his  Virginia,  at  the 
foot  of  the  same  shrubs  ; and  on  that  hallowed  spot  the  remains  of 
their  tender  mothers  and  their  faithful  servants  are  laid.  No  marble 
covers  the  turf,  no  inscription  records  their  virtues  ; but  their  memory 
is  engraven  upon  our  hearts,  in  ‘characters  which  are  indelible  ; and 
surely,  if  those  pure  spirits  still  take  an  interest  in  what  passes  upon 
earth,  they  love  to  wander  beneath  the  roofs  of  these  dwellings, 
which  are  inhabited  by  industrious  virtue,  to  console  the  poor  who 
complain  of  their  destiny,  to  cherish  in  the  hearts  of  lovers  the  sacred 
flame  of  fidelity,  to  inspire  a taste  for  the  blessings  of  nature,  the 
love  of  labor,  and  the  dread  of  riches. 

The  voice  of  the  people,  which  is  often  silent  with  regard  to  those 
monuments  reared  to  flatter  the  pride  of  kings,  has  given  to  some 
parts  of  this  island  names  which  will  immortalize  the  loss  of  Virginia. 
Near  the  isle  of  Amber,  in  the  midst  of  sand-banks,  is  a spot  called 
the  Pass  of  Saint  Geran,  from  the  name  of  the  vessel  which  there 
perished.  The  extremity  of  that  point  of  land,  which  is  three 
leagues  distant  and  half  covered  by  the  waves,  and  which  the  Saint 
Geran  could  not  double  on  the  night  preceding  the  hurricane,  is  called 
the  Cape  of  Misfortune  ; and  before  us,  at  the  end  of  the  valley,  is  the 


PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 


69 


Bay  of  the  Tomb,  where  Virginia  was  found  buried  in  the  sand  ; as 
if  the  waves  had  sought  to  restore  her  corpse  to  her  family,  that 
they  might  render  it  the  last  sad  duties  on  those  shores  of  which  her 
innocence  had  been  the  ornament. 

Ye  faithful  lovers,  who  were  so  tenderly  united  ! unfortunate 
mothers  ! beloved  family  ! those  woods  which  sheltered  you  with 
their  foliage,  those  fountains  which  flowed  for  you,  those  hillocks 
upon  which  you  reposed,  still  deplore  your  loss  ! No  one  has 
since  presumed  to  cultivate  that  desolated  ground  or  repair  those 
fallen  huts.  Your  goats  are  become  wild,  your  orchards  are  de- 
stroyed, your  birds  are  fled,  and  nothing  is  heard  but  the  cry  of  the 
sparrow-hawk,  who  skims  around  the  valley  of  rocks.  As  for  my- 
self, since  I behold  you  no  more,  1 am  like  a father  bereft  of  his 
children,  like  a traveller  who  wanders  over  the  earth  desolate  and 
alone. 


TME  END. 


